


Resonance (In The Mind’s Eye)

by cinnamonarsenic



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAU Team Bonding, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Gen, General Chaos, I Love Hurting My Favorite Characters, Kinda Magic??, Mild Language, Reid & Garcia Best Friend Superiority, Spencer Reid’s Big Brain, Superpowers, i don’t know how to tag, no beta - we die like men, there is more than one chapter i just don’t know how to work ao3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonarsenic/pseuds/cinnamonarsenic
Summary: The BAU-PSB is a prestigious branch of the FBI, specializing in cases involving people with supernatural abilities. Spencer Reid is a member of this team, but always feels out of place with the miracle people that are his teammates. But when a series of events lead to a chain reaction of discoveries, the BAU will learn there’s more to the genius than meets the eye.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Comments: 21
Kudos: 123





	1. don’t go there ‘cause you’ll never return

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hi, hello, and welcome! This is my first ever work posted on any site ever, so I’m a teeny bit nervous... but mostly excited to share this crazy project I’ve been working on! I will try (key word- try) to update every 1-2 weeks, but I can’t guarantee updates will be regular. This work was inspired by 2 fics on ao3 that I will tag... once I figure out how. Thanks for reading my notes and buckle in for a (hopefully) wild ride!! :))
> 
> Chapter title taken from the song The Adults are Talking by The Strokes.

Spencer Reid sometimes wondered how he got here, of all places. In the middle of the BAU’s Paranormal and Supernatural branch, when he seemed to be the most normal and ordinary of them all.

He couldn’t shoot with perfect aim like Hotch, or persuade technology like Garcia. He couldn’t see the past of anything with a touch like Rossi, couldn’t understand any language like Prentiss, break down doors like Morgan, or know what everyone was feeling, like JJ. Spencer frequently wondered why they even put him in the ability branch of the FBI in the first place.

But, where he couldn’t do anything outwardly strange or unusual, he was gifted with intelligence. 187 shining points of IQ, an ability to remember anything he’s ever seen or read, and reading 20,000 words in a minute was enough to qualify him for the BAU-PSB.

When he had applied, at the ripe young age of twenty-three, he was put through a series of tests, ranging from physical exercises, blood draws, written essays, and more. He can remember the shock that had rippled through him when the blood test had come back positive for supernatural ability. Spencer had always assumed his intelligence was just something miraculous from the natural world, not that of the paranormal. Gideon, though, had not been surprised by these results. He always believed that there was something more to Spencer that anyone thought, much to Reid’s chagrin.

Reid pondered these thoughts while standing in the elevator, the dull hum being drowned out by his mind. It’s not that he didn’t love where he was, no, he just didn’t know if he fit in with these miracle people.

He clutched the strap to his leather messenger bag, rubbing his thumbs methodically along the edge. The action calmed him, taking him out of the spiraling thoughts that were threatening to suck him down. He was grateful for his place in the BAU, with the job giving him friends and something meaningful with his ‘gift’. He just had a niggling fear in the back of his mind at all times: what if they don’t want you here?

The doors slid open, jarring him from his period of reflection. Spencer briskly strode out from the elevator, pushing open the glass doors to the bullpen like he did every day for the past five years.

“There’s the pretty boy!” Morgan exclaimed, holding his hands out towards Reid, a pen still clasped in one.

“I never thought I’d see the day the punctual doctor Reid was late,” Prentiss remarked from the other side of Spencer’s desk. Her close-cropped bangs were shifting as she looked up to look at him, eyes sparkling with humor. 

“You’re always here at the same time. What happened?”

Setting his bag down on the back of his chair, he shuffled the paperwork around on his desk to make way for his coffee cup. “I missed my regular bus this morning due to my landlord’s terrible decision to purchase a water bed, which then decided to rupture and send water leaking through my vents this morning,” he replied, pointedly looking at Prentiss. “I was then required to take the next bus, which didn’t come for another fifteen minutes.” His frustration rang through in his words while taking off his overcoat.

“Man, I keep telling you to just buy a car of your own. You can drive, you shouldn’t rely on rides from other people or public transport,” Morgan injected, looking at Reid with amusement.

Reid bristled for a moment, his mind rotating through all of the possible responses to Morgan’s teasing comment.

“Did you know that 500 million people rode public transportation in 2008, with 5.7 million trips taken by bus in the Virgina area alone? Believe me when I tell you that many people agree with my stance on public transportation,” Reid told him, sitting himself down at his desk.

Prentiss was laughing at the exchange, loud and bright, while Morgan looked flustered. He wasn’t expecting to lose the argument to Reid, that much was clear by his expression.

“What’s got Morgan all worked up?” JJ asked, striding by their desks and abruptly halting when she saw his flushed face.

“He’s just mad that I’m right, as usual,” Reid snarked, eliciting another laugh from Prentiss and a “Hey!” from Morgan.

JJ smoothed her straightened hair down in an attempt to stifle her laughter, though her grin was still smug on her face. She had files clasped in her hands, which could only mean one thing.

“Once you three are done arguing about whatever today’s topic is, make your way to the conference room. We’ve got a case,” she said, holding up the files in her hands dramatically before gliding away.

Reid started to gather his papers from the desk, muttering a “be right there” to JJ and giving Morgan a smirk before the latter walked away. He snatched his coffee from its place on his desk, knowing he’d need the caffeine, and left for the conference room, bag resting on one shoulder.

He chose a spot at the table close to the window, settling in for the presentation Garcia had likely prepared for them. Sipping his drink, he pulled out a pen from his bag and set it out on the table in front of him. He had always found it ironic that the team met at a round table, the obvious parallel to Arthurian mythology at the forefront of his mind. He thought that, in some respects, they were like the modern knights of the round table. Serving justice and keeping peace, all while surviving their own challenges.

“Thanks for the embarrassment, kid,” Morgan said, jarring Reid from his thoughts. Morgan was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, muscles peeking out from his t-shirt. “I really appreciate your relentless bullying,” he snarked. To that, Reid let out a surprised laugh.

“I don’t think a bit of light teasing qualifies as bullying,” he replied. The rest of the team was trickling in, all with completely different moods. JJ was calm and neutral, as always. Prentiss was confident and smiling, Rossi was tired but ready. Hotch was stoic, his hard eyes scanning the room, while Garcia bounded in as his direct foil, all bubbly and colorful.

“Good morning my lovelies!” Garcia chirped, making her way around the table and sliding the files into the hands of each agent. Her heels clacked aggressively against the floor, hair bouncing with each step. “I hope you all slept well and sound, because this next case is awfully gruesome,” she added.

Reid inwardly rolled his eyes, while he noticed both Prentiss and Morgan glancing at him humorously, knowing what had happened.

Hotch stood up, straightening his suit jacket and moving towards the screen, clicker in hand.

“Four people have been found dead in Delaware this morning, although it is thought that they have been dead for much longer. Debbie Angeldort, Harlan Ygovitch, Norah Jenkins, and Gavin Jenkins-” Hotch changes the slide to show their pictures, “-were all found in the woods by a local hiker. Local PD thought it was an opportunity kill, but changed the MO when they realised that all four had strong abilities.” Hotch changes the slide again, showing a website database with the list of registered people with paranormal abilities, known as the Enhanced by the government. The victims’ pictures were still on the margins, staring at the team through the screen.

“Debbie had the rare ability to generate electricity, and Harlan could control wind and air. Norah and Gavin, twins, could deafen people with their voices if spoken together. These are all very strong and very unusual abilites, which leads us to believe the unsub is targeting these enhanced people specifically,” Hotch explained.

Reid uncapped his pen and wrote a note to himself in the margins. This was an unusual case already. They were often called in on cases involving unsubs who are enhanced, but very rarely were the victims themselves gifted with abilites. They could typically protect themselves from others much more than the average person.

“It appears that we are dealing with an enhanced unsub as well, due to the nature of the case. It would be extremely hard for a typical person to subdue a victim with abilites, especially considering the strength of their powers,” Hotch continued.

“What kind of ability are we talking?” Morgan interjected. “What skills would a person require to take down four people with immense abilities?”

Reid pondered this, before replying, “Likely, we’re looking for an unsub who has high physical strength or some form of a mind control ability. The unsub would have to be able to disarm their victims quickly, before they can fight back.”

The team seemed to agree with this, with some turning back to look at the photos of the victims, others at the files on the table below them. Reid couldn’t help but notice that JJ had an odd expression on her face, sad and contemplative.

“Local PD needs us there, and fast, so wheels up in ten. Garcia, I need you on that plane as well. We need all hands on deck for this one,” Hotch said, grabbing the files and shuffling out of the conference room.

Garcia looked surprised, stopped in her tracks, before scurrying off to gather her supplies, chunky heels clicking in a tempo of their own. It was rare that she went with the profilers into the field, typically staying in her ‘Batcave’, as Morgan had aptly nicknamed it.

The others quickly followed after Hotch and Garcia, grabbing their things and making their way to the runway after stopping at their respective desks for their bags. Only JJ and Reid were now sitting in the room, with Spencer gathering his papers and JJ still gazing at the victims.

“Something doesn’t feel right about this case,” JJ spoke abruptly, snapping the heavy silence that was lingering in the room.

To that, Reid paused. JJ’s abilites didn’t have anything to do with divination or visions, but he didn’t want to write off her concern so quickly. There was stock in what she said, he could feel it too. This case was heavy, like it was haunted by the spirits of the victims, or something darker.

“Nothing ever feels right, in our line of work,” he says. The words settle over the room, while he stands over the table, watching her brew in her thoughts. She sits, fiddling with a pen, until she tilts her head up to look at him, eyes confused and pleading. He opens his mouth, closes it. Walks out of the room, unspoken words lingering on his mouth.

The entire time on the plane, Reid sat in the corner of his leather seat, thinking. About how and why the unsub did what they did. About JJ’s concern over the case. About... other things. He could tell the others were having similar thoughts about their lives, the meditative looks on their faces a clear indicator. These kinds of cases always brought some sort of reflection to their minds.

“So, what else do we know about the murders?” Prentiss asks, breaking them all out of their trance. Almost all of them swiveled their heads around to look at her, thankful for the distraction from their personal lives.

Hotch clears his throat and speaks, “We know that the victims were all stabbed, but the stab wounds are different for each. Norah and Gavin were stabbed in the back, Norah having four stab wounds and Gavin having six. Debbie was wounded in her right leg three times, before being stabbed in the chest once. Harlan was the worst off, with thirteen stab wounds in his chest.”

“Well, that suggests anger in the kills. So why would this unsub be so furious towards people he likely had never met?” JJ questioned. It frightened her, how someone could be so angry to kill someone that passionately. She hoped she would never know the answer.

“Maybe he was using them as surrogates and projecting his anger onto them?” Reid suggests, pen spinning methodically in his right hand.

“It’s possible, but the only thing these victims have in common is the fact they had abilites. There must be some trauma or issue in the unsub’s past to have such anger toward those with abilites when he likely has one,” Rossi said.

“We have to use this knowledge, however limited, to form our profile. Reid, Morgan, JJ, I want you to go to the scene. Prentiss, Rossi, and I will set up at the station. Garcia, start preparing to set up your equipment once we’re there. Everyone be ready to land in Port Frampton in twenty,” Hotch said, his authority weighing on his voice. The others were focused on his words, but Reid could only notice Hotch’s wedding ring, spinning around his finger.

After the briefing, Reid had gone back to skimming the file. He wasn’t really reading it, his eyes only drawn to the photos attached to the file with a paperclip. The brutal murders startled him, sometimes, especially when the unsub was targeting people like him and his coworkers.

“I can hear the gears whirring in that brain of yours from over here, kid,” Rossi says, leaning over the table to look at Reid. “What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t know how to answer. The miraculous Dr. Spencer Reid, at a loss for words, he thought to himself. He closes the file he was pretending to read, and set it on the table in front of him.

“Just wondering why the worst people are gifted with some of the strongest abilites. If you can do something no one else can, why would you exploit that?” He paused, seemingly thinking of what to say next, before ending,“Why choose to hurt people, when you could potentially save lives?” he sighed, mildly frustrated. He smoothed the table with his hands, rubbing a finger around the edge. He could tell the others were watching and pretending that they weren’t.

“People will always do bad things with the opportunities they are given. We just have to make sure we’re there to stop them,” Rossi replies, the jet’s engines humming, seemingly in agreement.

Reid glances up, eyes catching on Rossi’s weathered ones. He smiles, a close lipped one, hazel eyes full of hesitation. He then grabs the file again, uncaps his pen, and starts writing again.

They land at 12:53 Eastern time, the wheels screeching and bumping on the tarmac runway. Reid always hated that feeling, the jostling and moving of the plane below his feet. He always thought he had a fear of what he couldn’t control, finding comfort in the usual and predictable. Planes were anything but that. Though, he realized, his job was anything but typical or usual. The irony strikes him as funny.

In a whirlwind of motion, he’s been taken from the plane to the airport to where he is now, climbing out of the back of a hulking black SUV, unfurling his long limbs and feeling his canvas sneakers sinking into the mud. He hated mud and the way it felt beneath his feet.

The sky was still overcast, clouds skirting around the dark atmosphere. The wind was rustling the tree leaves, making an ominous soundtrack to their investigation. There was a kind of tangible weight in the air, like nature knew something was wrong. Everything about this case spelled disaster, and the dump site’s environment just solidified JJ’s claims further.

Reid tried to ignore it, smoothing down his tie with his hands, making sure it was perfectly positioned beneath his sweater vest. It was more of a nervous habit than a needed action, but it comforted him.

The local police were trailing behind them, following as the three agents walked down the damp hill into a grassy ravine where the victims had been found. The grass was slick with dew, and it took active concentration to not go tumbling down the incline.

Once they reached the bottom, Morgan came up next to him, offering him a pair of latex gloves in his outstretched fist. Reid gave him a closed smile and took the gloves from him, snapping them over his hands.

The bodies still lay positioned where they were found, with two sprawled close to each other, and the others spread away from them, appearing to form a triangle.

“Norah and Gavin are the two at the top, and Debbie is on the bottom left. Harlan is bottom right,” the deputy said. His dull badge read S. COPELAND. Reid filed the information away for later.

Squatting down, Reid inspected Debbie’s body. Rigor mortis had very clearly set in and completed its course, her body stiff and pale. The fatal wounds were red and puckered, still raw and fresh. It created a stark contrast, he noted, between her lifeless skin and vibrant wounds. It was almost poetic, in a macabre way. Her eyes were open wide, unseeing and glazed.

“Due to the decomposition and state of the body, I would say that Debbie has been dead for at least two days, if not more. Rigor mortis takes approximately one to two hours to set in and forty-eight hours to complete at least, which at the shortest time frame possible would set her death at-” he paused, “-two-thirty-eight AM on Saturday,” he finished. Reid stood back up, looking back at Morgan and JJ, who were looking at the other victims.

“I would say the same time frame would fit our other victims, too,” he added, somewhat shyly. Reid never knew how the local police would react to his gift, with the immense intellect sometimes scaring officers or making them direct their anger towards him. He didn’t want to overdo it and startle the deputy and his officers away from him.

“That means that the unsub killed the victims, and then held them for a period of time before dropping them here. What reasons would I have for doing that?” Morgan said, thinking out loud.

“Guys, come look at this,” JJ interrupts, looking up from the twins’ bodies to face them. She’s pushed Norah’s hair back, long brown locks disturbed from their place. On her neck is a half-inch long slit, razor thin and as fresh as the other wounds. The odd thing, though, is that the cut is in the shape of the number nine.

“This wound is also on Gavin’s neck, in almost the exact same place,” she says, pointing to the cut on the boy’s neck with her painted fingernail. His is a jagged nine, just like his sister’s.

Reid strides quickly over to the other body, lying feet away, and lift’s Debbie’s lifeless head off the ground gently. Peering below, he sees a similar incision on her neck, in the same spot as the others. Debbie’s is different, though, cut in the jagged outline of a ten.

“There’s one here, too,” Reid says back, turning to look at JJ. “It’s in the shape of a ten.” He sets the woman down gingerly, trying not to cause more damage.

“Kid over here has an eight on his neck,” Morgan states, standing up from the fourth victim’s body. He looks uneasy, almost on edge. Reid finds this odd. It takes a lot to make Morgan uncomfortable, he thinks.

“What could those numbers mean?” the deputy asks, rough hands on his hips. He looked like a stern teacher, the comparison interjecting itself into Reid’s thoughts, causing him to stifle a laugh.

The mood is instantly soured, though, when they hear rustling coming from the far north corner of the forest that is in their line of sight. The leaves are crunching too frequently and too loud to be a squirrel or other animal. Morgan immediately crouches down, defensive posture clear in his frame. He moves towards the front of the group, towards the sound. Reid and JJ both unlatch their holsters, fingers hovering over the gun at his waist and her ankle. The deputy and two other policemen just move to the back, unsure what to do.

Morgan continues to creep forward, aiming to see the top of the hill, when a voice interrupts him.

“What’s going on down there?” the person asks. The voice is a woman’s, but it has a timbre to it that places it on a lower register than usual.

They all immediately and visibly relax, realizing the woman is not a threat, but likely lost in the massive woods.

Morgan climbs to the top of the hill quickly now, meeting with the woman who spoke before. He holds out a hand for her to keep her from slipping down the side of the incline.

The woman is young, looking to be about a few years past thirty. She has long, elbow length brown hair, glossy in the low light. Her skin is pale and freckled, the dots scattered along her forearms and face. Her lips are tight, grimacing as she cautiously makes her way down the hill, thin fingers still clutching Morgan’s arm. She holds an air of sophistication that is hard to place, with reflective mossy eyes that remind him of a cat’s.

But the oddest thing about this interaction is that Reid is sure he has met this woman before. As soon as she stepped into his line of sight, the sense of familiarity that washes over him is overpowering. When she turns to look at him, the feeling increases tenfold, causing him to inadvertently take a step back.

“M’am, are you lost?” the deputy asks, stepping towards the woman, trying to block her sight from the bodies on the ground. She breaks her gaze towards Reid to then eye the deputy. Even without her eyes on him, Reid still feels uneasy. He tries to ignore the feeling, flicking the latch to his gun closed even though every instinct in him is screaming to pull it out and fire.

“Actually, I am. Of course I have to pick a trail and then stray off it, only to find some sort of police investigation!” she says, a humorous tone lifting her voice higher. “What is it that you are doing here, anyways?”

JJ and Reid turn to look at each other, having a conversation with just their glances. Neither had any idea how to answer the woman’s question, with JJ unequipped to come up with such a response so quickly and Reid distracted by the mystery woman’s familiarity.

They were saved, however, by one of the cops interjecting “M’am, we’re not at liberty to disclose that right now. Why don’t I show you back?” She strode towards the woman, taking her elbow and leading her away from the bodies. The cop then gestured towards the deputy, holding her hands out to signal something. They then began their ascent back up the hill, making light conversation as they faded from the others’ sight.

When the woman and the cop are out of earshot, the deputy sighs out, “That was close.” He’s since placed his mace back in its holster, and is now clasping the latch back shut. “I hope that poor woman didn’t see anything. That could scar a person for life, if they didn’t know what they were getting into.”

“She didn’t feel scared or nervous, though. She was curious, I could sense it wafting off of her. It was so intense,” JJ spoke, confusing sparkling in her blue eyes. Reid drops his eyes to his converse when she says this, feeling like he couldn’t look JJ in the eyes as she spoke about her. He didn’t want either of them picking up on his unease.

Morgan’s cell started chirping a beat later, breaking their contemplative silence. He looked down at the screen and flipped it open, leaving the other four to awkwardly find a place to look. JJ stared at a body, while the two officers spoke quietly to each other. Reid’s hazel eyes were still fixed on a rather interesting speck of mud smeared across the top of his shoe, his fingers smoothing the purple tie laced around his neck.

“Hey, Hotch, we were just finishing up at the crime scene.” He paused, listening to their boss speak whatever directions over the phone, before replying, “Alright. We’ll be right there.” Morgan flicked the phone shut, and clamped it back in the holder neatly clasped to his jeans.

“Hotch needs us back at the station. We got photos of the numbers on their necks, right?” A nod from the officer closest to Morgan satisfies him, as he strides towards the SUV parked a distance away, next to a towering oak tree.

“What do you think the numbers mean, Spence?” JJ asks him as they’re climbing up the side of the hill once again.

He hesitates before answering. “You were correct. About this case. There’s something not right about it,” he says cryptically. He turns to face her, looking her in the eye before glancing away and picking up his pace, not wanting to reply to whatever concern she would express.

“From what I can gather, your messed up cookie is full of unchecked rage,” Garcia said, fingers flying across the keyboard that was haphazardly set in front of her makeshift tech setup. She’s only glancing at the information that’s flying across the screen, her brain able to process it as it crosses for a second; a perk from her ability. She could also read binary without ever learning it, almost like it was hardwired into her brain when she was born.

The entire team is converged around the conference room table, crammed into the somewhat small room with a large rectangular table in the center. Reid is staring intently at the board, pins holding the new images onto the cork surface. A pen is in his right hand, which is moving up and down methodically, like he’s writing something in the air. Morgan, Rossi, and JJ are seated at the table with Garcia, all of them flicking through the files on local criminals, trying to find someone who stands out. Prentiss is out in the hall, talking to the other officers. Hotch looks up from where he is also seated at the table when Garcia speaks, a stern look chiseled on his face.

“Thank you, Garcia. Is that really all you have?” he spoke, frustration lacing in his deep voice. Garcia looked slightly scared by this tone, colorful orb earrings swinging violently with her immediate reaction.

“Well, um- sir- you haven’t really given me much to go on, and I was- um- trying to lighten the mood?” she said timidly, out of character. She glances around at the others, pleading with her eyes for one of them to step in.

Morgan notices quickly, and jumps in. “Hotch, go easy on her. We can’t blame Garcia here,” he said. Morgan’s protective nature was shifting into high gear.

Hotch looked over to the man, then back to Garcia. He seemed to realize he’d struck a nerve. “I’m sorry, Garcia, for snapping. I’m just- worried. More so than usual,” he said, looking down at his rough hands, fingers spinning the ring on his left hand.

Prentiss came striding in, breaking the tension with a bold, “I think I have something.” She looked confident, eyes firm and unbreakable. “The local college has an anonymous ability support group set up, with thirteen members this year.” She held up the papers in her hand before dramatically setting them down on the table. 

“Although it is anonymous, I pulled a few strings with the college and was able to get the 2009 roster. And guess who were all involved?” she asked the group, returning the looks she was getting from the entire team.

“Debbie Angeldort and Harlan Ygovitch were the leaders of the group, being seniors, and asked none other than Norah and Gavin Jenkins, two freshmen, to join.” Prentiss looked down at the file, having finished her story. She flipped to the next page, grabbing the list of students off of the pile and sliding it to Hotch.

“Is there anyone else involved in this group that could give us information? A student or teacher, perhaps?” Reid interjected, having moved from the board to standing where he was now, hovering awkwardly over Emily’s shoulder to peer at the list.

“The school social worker, Dana Vandevorde, is the adult overseer of the club,” Prentiss responded, pulling out her record from the stack of papers.

“I think we know where we need to go next. Let’s pay a visit to Mrs. Vandevorde,” Hotch said, standing up from the table and striding towards the door.

Rossi, Hotch, and Prentiss were standing in the main office of the community college as the principal was droning on about how they had to remain discreet in the school, not wanting to panic the students. None of them were truly listening, all staring at something in the cramped room and drinking in the surroundings.

It was a small school, and the office reflected that. The warm brown tones of the room and wood paneling reflected an outdated aesthetic, with newer posters plastered on the wall to cover the blemishes and dents. The school clearly prided itself on being inclusive to those with abilites, having multiple pamphlets on the topic set up in a clear holder sitting neatly on the desk, next to a chunky computer.

The principal then ended his speech, walking a few feet before blurting out “follow me!” nervously, seemingly not knowing what to do with himself. The agents trailed behind the man, who was now rubbing his palms over his pants repeatedly, and it wouldn’t take a profiler to tell that he was extremely uncomfortable. Rossi glanced humorously over at Prentiss, who had also found the principal’s nervous energy to be quite funny. They smirked at each other, until Hotch noticed, both composing themselves and regaining their serious demeanor.

The principal knocked on the door twice and called out, “Mrs. Vandevorde?” before opening the it with a creak.

Mrs. Vandevorde was seated at a small oak desk, pen looping across the page of a bound leather notebook. She glanced up once the company had squeezed themselves into the room, which was rather claustrophobic and could barely fit the four extra people.

On the far wall was an odd display. There were many framed photographs, at least thirty, all of students who had attended the school in years prior. The shots were taken from shoulder to top of the head, like a school yearbook photo, but more sterile. Many subjects were beaming, eyes crinkled with joy, teeth bared for all to see. Even with the overwhelming happiness, the photos still held a haunting quality to them, like something was lurking beneath the surface.

“Hi, how can I help you?” she asked pleasantly, jarring Prentiss out of her examination. Something about the woman’s smile concerned her, seeming too sugary sweet and sincere. She looked like a photo off of the wall had been pasted over her real expression. _You’re being paranoid, Emily_ , she thought to herself.

“Hey, Dana, these officers just have a few questions for you. Regarding, you know, the _murders_ ,” the principal answered, whispering the last words like someone would overhear. It made Prentiss want to roll her eyes, but she controlled her frustration to a mild tapping of her finger.

“We’re FBI agents, m’am, and we just need some basic information regarding the anonymous ability group that you oversee,” Hotch said, professional composure in full effect. Emily had no idea how he did it, sometimes.

“Oh, of course! It’s truly terrible what happened to those students, don’t you think?” There it was again, she noticed. That smile, threatening but not enough to be detectable to the average eye. Prentiss was officially unnerved by Mrs. Vandevorde.

There was a pregnant pause, no one in the room knowing what to say next. The principal fidgeted, until quickly yapping out “You’re all good? Okay? I’ll be in my office if you need me for anything!” before virtually sprinting away from the room. Someone clearly had a fear of law enforcement if Prentiss had ever seen one.

Rossi pulled out a plush chair from the desk, sitting to face the woman behind it. Hotch and Prentiss followed suit, taking the two chairs by the door and moving them closer towards the counselor. Her hair was medium length, a chestnut brown. It shone in the florescent light of the office, just like her sparkling green eyes. She had a professional pantsuit on, looking like a schoolteacher from the 90s. Her face, however, was young, likely mid-thirties. Her lips were still peeled back into a smile.

“So, Mrs. Vandevorde-” Rossi said, before being interrupted with a “please, call me Dana.” Rossi straightened his tie, sitting up a bit more.

“Right. Dana, how well did you know Debbie Angeldort and Harlan Ygovitch?” he said firmly, eyes boring into hers, seeking a truth.

Her response was almost immediate, and felt scripted. “I knew the both of them rather well, and worked closely with them to organise the group. Same with Norah and Gavin, although I only met them recently. So tragic, the accident,” she finished, shaking her head by the end. Dana stood up, tall heels thunking against the tile floor with every step she took. Opening the filing cabinet at the far wall with a clang, she flicked through multiple before finding three and pulling them out.

“Here’s all the information I have on the four of them,” she said, handing the files to Rossi, who then passed them back to Prentiss at her request. Dana was unphased, still talking. “Norah and Gavin are one file, they never seemed to do anything alone! They were the perfect example of non-conjoined conjoined twins, you know?” Now seated back at the desk, she was leaning into her elbows and smiling towards the agents. It was too threatening for Prentiss’ liking.

Hotch cleared his throat, then asked, “Were there any students that were actively against those who had abilites, and would target these individuals?” His eyes caught hers, stern professionalism meeting enigmatic green.

“None that I knew of, but that doesn’t mean that every single person here was perfectly tolerant. Bigotry is not necessarily vocal,” she chirped, voice once again a perfect foil for the conversation: one light and airy, the other dark and heavy. Hotch was still staring at her, trying to decipher the clues she was giving him inadvertently.

Dana cleared her throat, asking “Is that all?” pleasantly. It didn’t feel pleasant, however. It felt like she was trying to shoo them out of her office. The framed photos stared back at them, eyes boring into the profiler’s souls.

“Do you think it would be possible to get your file as well?” Prentiss spoke, looking up from the opened file of one Debbie Angeldort, young face smiling skyward, frozen in time. All the information the school had on her was behind the photo on thin printer paper. Something told Emily that she would be needing whatever information she could get on this bizarre counselor she was currently sharing a room with. “For informational purposes, of course.”

Something changes in the woman’s eyes, at that. Dana Vandevorde seems to be irritated for a split second, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, until slipping on a polite mask immediately after. It was a mesmerizing sight, to watch someone control their emotions.

“Of course. I’ll go grab that for you,” she uttered, before striding briskly out of the room, only stopping to open the heavy wooden door.

Prentiss took this as her cue to get a good look around the office, standing up to look at something that kept catching her eye.

There was a small closet embedded into the backmost wall, a perfect hiding place for something that the woman didn’t want to be seen. As she squatted down to the comically tiny door, only standing about four feet, Rossi and Hotch looked on. There was no lock on the handle, so she gently turned the handle until the latch clicked open, then pushing open the door with a soft hand. She had to virtually crawl into the closet, standing up only once she was inside, narrowly avoiding the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Prentiss gently tugged the chain, and the small inset was immediately flooded with light.

Inside the closet were almost fifteen frames, just like the ones on the wall that had made her oddly nervous. They were stacked inside of a cardboard box, almost beginning to tower over the lip. In the other corner of the tiny space was a new digital camera, one that a professional photographer would use. Its shutter was closed and only sat menacingly in its corner, almost like it was watching the team. Besides those two items, the rest of the objects stored in the closet were inconspicuous enough; extra paperwork, old charts and diagrams, files rejected from the filing cabinet.

Prentiss turned the light off and crept back out of the closet, returning back to her chair in the opposite corner of the room after closing the small door. Hotch and Rossi were still watching her, almost like they were examining a frog in middle school biology. This time, however, they were dissecting her with their eyes rather than a dull-bladed scalpel.

“Did that satisfy your curiosity?” Rossi questioned, turning in his chair. He had an unplaceable expression on his face, almost a combination of humor and disdain.

Before she could answer, Mrs. Vandevorde came strutting back in, holding a manilla folder in her manicured hands. She dropped it down on the table with no hesitation, letting it fall to the oak beneath it.

“I take it you will follow up with any additional questions?” Dana crowed, still smiling her odd smile towards the three. Her fingers were brushing the bottom of her jacket, appearing as if she were nervous. Prentiss took mental note of this action.

Rossi smiled gently, standing up and smoothing his suit where it had gathered. “Yes, thank you for your time.” He firmly grasped her hand, shook it firmly, and went to leave the office. Prentiss trailed behind her coworkers, only glancing back once to see the other woman still smiling, only this time being close lipped and tense.

As soon as the agents had vacated her office, Dana closed her door and locked it, hearing the solid click of the latch before preceding. She then opened the closet door, looked once, twice, reassuring herself that nothing was missing. She added pressure to the back panel of wood lining the closet, pulling out slips of paper embedded in the wall. Her own little hidey hole, she thought. Dana looked at the photos of Debbie, Harlan, Norah, and Gavin, all smiling up towards her, and was only reminded of their final moments. It would stay with her forever, those memories. Satisfied, she turned the photos over, put them back in the slot, and started writing in her journal again.

_“This isn’t normal, Diana! You of all people should know that!”_

__

__

_Someone was yelling. He couldn’t tell who, only that it was a deeper, more masculine voice. It sounded familiar._

__

_“I won’t let you take him to some place where the government can experiment on my baby! He’s mine, William, and you can’t take him! Over my dead body!” a woman (your mother, how can you not know your own mother, a voice whispered) shrieked in response._

__

__

_The quaint scene in front of him was tilting and turning, glass vase set on the table the only thing in his sight. The pale roses sat gently in the water, the color of blood from a direct artery. The screaming argument was scaring him, fear settling deep in his bones, hand clutching the table, almost making indents with his small fingernails. Sunlight was streaming in the kitchen window._

__

__

_The glass on the table started to shake, seeming to rage with the fight behind him. The eye of the storm, vase shaking slowly. There were eleven hurricanes last year, only ten being named. It was now vibrating, roses now jumping sporadically, water forming droplets upward. It starts moving faster and faster and faster, spiralling water, until the people are screaming at him, screaming for him to stop, to control himself, when it becomes too loud and too bright and too scary and too overwhelming and too MUCH -_

__

__

_the glass explodes._

Spencer Reid woke with a start, gasping for air as he was shaken from the grips of a nightmare. Running a hand over his face, he attempted to calm himself. Deep, heavy breaths shook his thin frame, mind still racing over what he was seeing. His night terrors were nothing new, constantly being plagued by the horrors he saw every day in the workplace, along with some other things he couldn’t ( _wouldn’t_ ) admit. But they never left him feeling like he was on the cusp of a memory, the taste of a day he couldn’t quite remember. Almost nothing ever rendered him like this, eidetic memory saving him from the commonality of forgetting.

He pushes his hair out of his face, long and curly strands usually greased down now wild and free in the late night. Spencer is sitting up now, leaning against the headboard of a nondescript hotel in a sleepy town where ‘oh, nothing like this ever happens here, it’s such a quiet area!’. He slides over to his notebook that was left on the dresser from before he went to bed, a mere five hours ago. Flips it open, uncaps his pen, and starts scrawling out notes rapidly. One of the many downsides of a high IQ (or maybe it’s just him) was the inability to shut his brain off. It was constantly thinking, planning, decoding. Looking at every angle simultaneously.

He pauses. Looks over at Morgan, sleeping in the bed adjacent to his own. His friend is out, light snores occasionally punctuating a sentence in the silence.  
Reid shuffles the covers over to the left, letting his socked feet touch the carpet below him. Left is a striped purple and black, the right a light blue with penguins patterned over it, a gift from Garcia last Christmas. He’s lacing his shoes, now, loop loop pull running through his mind. A jingle his mom would sing to him, teaching him how to tie his shoes.

He creeps over to the door, a glimmering oasis in the desert, trying to avoid the points in the floor he found to have creaked earlier in the day. Unlocks the door, removing the latches and pressing gently on the handle and letting out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding when he was in the safety of the bright hallway.  
Spencer does this often. He walks the halls of whatever hotel or motel or inn they’re lodging at, glancing at the framed artwork and the awards and the pool, glistening in the darkness of the night. He has change in his pocket, he realizes, and decides to treat himself to a snack from the vending machine. Trying to cut sugar out of his diet had probably done a number on his attitude.

The machine is bright, iconic metal spirals glaring light back into his not yet adjusted eyes. He scans the options, choosing a classic Oreo cookie pack, and punches in F4. He immediately picks up the cookies, when he hears the telltale click of heels. Even on carpet, the sound is distinct to him. He’s always had the odd talent to tell exactly what a sound is, even without seeing it. Gideon thought it was part of his ability, but Morgan always teased him and said it was a ‘weird talent for a weird kid’.

He turns around to see who the oncomer is, when something heavy and blunt is crashing into his head and it _hurts, oh got it hurts_ , there’s blood pouring down his face, and the woman with the eerie green eyes and familiar figure is smiling as he fades into nothing.


	2. they’re taking me to nowhere safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!! I’m back sooner than I thought. Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, it means so much to me! Also, thank you for the helpful advice, I’m figuring everything out as I go and it’s greatly appreciated. Things ramp up more this chapter, so I hope that makes up for it being a few thousand words shorter than the last. In case it was unclear, this takes place in season 4ish. Also, Garcia and Reid are best friends and I will die on that hill. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!!
> 
> Chapter tile taken from the song Legs Away by Mother Mother.

Morgan awakes to a violent pounding on his door, picturing the door rattling on its hinges with every knock. _It’s too early for this shit_ , he thinks to himself, rolling over to check the time on the alarm clock next to the bed. The electric green face blinks back 6:34 to him, and he shoots up. He’s almost late to work, Hotch expecting them at the station by seven.

Morgan scrambles out of the bed and over to the door, expecting to see a very angry Agent Hotchner at his doorstep. His surprise was overwhelming when he threw open the door to find a very frazzled Penelope Garcia. Her glasses are a light breeze away from sliding off her face, bubbly outfit looking more thrown together than usual. She hadn’t even worn heels.

“God, how long does it take you to answer the door? I love you, my Chocolate Thunder, but you have no sense of urgency,” she says, bustling past him into the room before he can even utter a word.

Garcia’s opening the curtains, now, purse swinging violently with every action. He can only wonder what he did to deserve this. A frantic Garcia is a terrifying Garcia.

“What’s the matter, babygirl? I know you love me, but barging into my room without explaining yourself when I’m late is not a very romantic gesture,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face, still attempting to wake himself up.

The whirlwind is now standing right in front of him, an odd expression on her face. It looks almost like anger, but not quite.

“We had a major break in the case not more than twenty minutes ago. Hotch has been calling you nonstop, trying to get you sleepyheads awake,” she bristled, brushing past him before spinning back around a step away from the door.

“Where’s Reid?”

It was the first time Morgan had even thought of the kid that morning, being distracted by the chaos that was his wakeup call. It was now dawning on him that Reid was supposed to wake him up at six. Glancing at the other bed, he noticed the sheets were distressed and his pad of spiral paper was open to a new page than the day before. The pen was missing. His shoes were gone from the bedside, where he had left them the night prior, but nothing else was out of place.

“I- I don’t know,” Morgan said, confusion seeping into his tone. “Maybe he went to get breakfast?”

“And didn’t change his clothes, do his hair, and forgets to wake you up before doing that? I don’t think so. Reid never forgets anything, that’s his whole schtick. No way, not him.” Garcia was now nervously pacing the room, looking at Morgan every time she made a new point. She was silent for a second, before speaking again.

“You don’t think anything happened to him, do you?” she muttered, a watery tone laced with fear. “The- um, the unsub has been taking people with abilities, would they,” she closes her eyes. “Would they have a reason to take Spencer?”

“No, okay? No. He’s probably already at the station, or... or looking at the scene again. Reid is perfectly fine, nothing bad is happening. Not again.” Morgan realizes as he’s talking that he sounds less and less sure, almost like he’s trying to convince himself that what he’s saying is the truth. A whispering voice in his head tells him it’s not.

“He’s not at the station. I was there until ten minutes ago, and Hotch wanted me to get the two of you. He doesn’t know where Reid is either,” Garcia pleaded anxiously. She was standing above Morgan, who was seated on the bed, and gazing at him with watery eyes on the verge of tears.

At that, another knock on the door rang out throughout the room. Morgan virtually sprinted over to the door, flinging it open without unlatching the locks, ripping them out of the door. A surprised busboy was gaping back at him, eyes comically wide and jaw on the proverbial floor.

“What are you doing here?” Morgan spat out, aggression flaring in every tense muscle. His left hand was grasping the door frame, the other still clutched on the door handle. He felt Garcia’s presence brushing on his arm, peering around his large frame.

The hotel employee was still ogling Morgan, gazing up at him in fear. Timidly, they uttered out “I have- um, I have the paper you requested?” Their arm slowly extended towards the two, a newspaper held in the shaking hand.  
Morgan started to talk, saying “We didn’t request-” before being abruptly cut off by Garcia’s loud “Thank you! Here’s a dollar, have a nice day!”. She grabbed the newspaper, shoved the change into their hands, pulled Morgan back away from the door, and slammed it shut with little hesitation. The interaction took about two seconds.

Morgan turns, “That kid could have been up to something, Garcia, we have no idea-” before a finger was placed over his lips and he stopped speaking.

“That poor frightened child whom you just scarred for life was doing their job. And why the hell did you request a newspaper?” Her hair accessories were moving again, as was she, swiftly moving away from the doorway and shards of metal left on the floor from Morgan’s rash decision.

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“Request a newspaper. I didn’t.” His expression was serious, stern with a hint of worry laid beneath. At this, Garcia looks down at what’s clutched in her hand.

The paper was adorned with the day’s headlines, spouting something about politics and crime. It was folded twice, both neatly in the center. She begins unfolding the paper, shaky hands afraid of what they’ll discover. She keeps unraveling the sheet, over and over, fears running through her head at lightspeed, nerves a jumble in her stomach. On the fourth crease’s release, something drops to the ground in an unceremonious thump.

Morgan bends down to pick up the item while Garcia’s eyes are still fixed on the paper. His fingers curl around a pen, cold steel colored purple with a gold trim adorning the nib. He rotates it over to see what he was dreading: the kid’s initials engraved on the side of the barrel, a shiny SWR glaring back at him.

The unsub had taken Reid, and left them with his lucky pen.

“Garcia...” he began, until he saw her face, full of fear and eyes welling up with tears. Wordlessly, she turns the paper around, until what she had been reading is facing Morgan.

NEVER AGAIN was scrawled in huge block letters, chalked onto the surface in permanent marker, covering the original text of the paper.

Their eyes met, brown boring into pale blue behind a sheen of glass. “We need to call Hotch.”

He crashes into consciousness clumsily, awoken from his pain-induced slumber by a striking noise coming from somewhere near him. It sounded heavy, large, like a metal filing cabinet being pushed to the ground. Blearily, Spencer opens his heavy eyelids, distantly noticing there was blood matted to the back of his head. Facts about infection invaded his thoughts, causing him to try and lift his hand, only to be stopped by a pair of cold metal cuffs attached to a sterile steel table.

More aware, now, he glances at his surroundings. It’s reminiscent of an interrogation room at a police station, cream walls and harsh tile floors all tied together by dim lights and a general sense of unease. There’s a clock on the wall he’s facing, second hand ticking quietly throughout the small room. The face reads 6:58. A window with the blinds closed is to his right, next to a door that leads to who knows where. The more he thinks about it, he realizes it looks like a commercial building.  
The door handle turns, latch loosening, to which his head shoots up to look at the person walking in.

It’s the woman from the crime scene, the one he caught a glimpse of before he got blunt force trauma to the head ( _but you’ve known her longer than that, haven’t you Spencie?_ , a voice whispers), the one who had the startling eyes that felt like something he couldn’t quite remember. She’s facing him now, lips curled in a pleasant smile that reads like something else.

“Good morning, Spencer. Or should I say SSA Doctor Spencer Reid, young upstart of the FBI?” she spoke, sarcasm dripping from every word. She grabbed a chair that was lined up below the window, screeching vibrations ringing through the air as she dragged metal across tile. Daintily, she took a seat and clasped her manicured hands on the table. “I’m sorry about the- disturbance that no doubt woke you. My partner lacks a sort of self control that is oh so vital in our line of work. He’s great at what he does, yes, but far too passionate about some things.” Her eyes danced mischievously, challenging him to say something in response.

He cleared his throat, thinking of what to ask. “Who are you?” he muttered, sticking for the simple hostage script that was ingrained in his mind. Step one: deduce location. Step two: gain as much information as possible about the captor. Step three: use said information against them.

“My current name is Dana Vandevorde, but I’d much prefer it if you called me Marsha. I do believe that’s the name you’ll recall you know me as,” she trilled cryptically. Her porcelain smile was so threatening, so _familiar -_

_“Spencer, I want you to tell me everything about the incident with the vase. What you were thinking, feeling, even hearing,” a woman commanded. He was sitting on a large leather couch, small body sinking into the crevices. His hands were inside the sleeves of his sweater, arms wrapped around his torso in a comforting action. His father just looks at him._

____

____

_“I don’t remember anything about it,” he lied._

__

__

_The woman gave him a chastising look. She was the image of a mother scolding a child, but he supposed that wasn’t too far from the truth._

__

__

_“Now, Spencer, you and I both know that’s not true. You know, a little bird told me that you wanted to explain everything that happened with the vase,” she spoke calmly._

__

__

_Her words wafted over to him, power laced in the syllables. As soon as he heard them uttered, he felt the overwhelming urge to tell her everything. It was gnawing at him from the inside, he NEEDED to tell them what happened, and the next thing he knows the story is tumbling from his mouth._

He draws in a startled breath, shocked out of the memory. He knew it was real, it had to be. It was tangible, the memory, still feeling the couch beneath him and the words in his ears and the overwhelming urge to do what the nice lady had told him.

This woman - Marsha - is still just sitting, watching. She reminds him of a cat, studiously watching, lying in wait for the mouse to be weak enough so that she could pounce.

“Seems some things are coming back to you, that’s good. Once your meds wear off, we’ll be in business. But until then, I’d like you to meet my coworker. Harry?” she hollers, tilting her head to face the door, ignoring Reid’s face, pale and dreadful.

A shorter man strides through the door, full of confidence in every step. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, deep set eyes burning with anger. He has a striking puckered scar adorning the left side of his forehead, streaking from one corner to meet his widow’s peak. His straight brown hair is gelled back smoothly, complimenting the sophisticated two piece suit he’s dressed in, thin gray pinstripes cutting through the black jacket.

“This is my partner Harry, who I believe you heard making that racket a few moments ago. Harry has a unique talent, Spencer. One I find very useful,” she drawled venomously.

Marsha circled the man, heels clicking against tile as she rubbed her hands against his back in an odd display of affection. “Harry sees numbers,” she says, rubbing a nail on the man’s scruff. At this, Reid blanches, mind flipping through the victims, incisions carved into their necks in the shape of numbers.

“But not just any numbers. Oh no. Harry sees how _dangerous_ a person can be. Before you ask, I will explain. For example, a school child would be a one. Minimal danger, minimal potential for damage. A man with a loaded gun and experience using it, however? That would be a seven or eight. The highest a non-enhanced person has ever ranked on the scale is a whopping nine, can you believe that?” she elaborated, Harry walking away towards a cabinet on the left wall. “A man with seven grenades strapped to him, ready to blow.”

“People with abilites however, that’s a whole different story. As you have likely figured out, I can manipulate others, if you will, by saying a key phrase. That puts me at a ten on the scale, right Harry?” The man nods curtly, returning to the desk with a file. Marsha leans down to the table, hands firmly supporting her leaning body over the table. He leans back to look up at her, slight frame towering above him like she’s asserting dominance. The cat analogy sneaks its way into his thoughts again.

“But you, Spencer. When I started this mission with Henry dearest, I knew I had to find you. The highest a person has ever ranked on the scale is a fourteen, did you know that? Was a woman from Idaho, could control the blood inside of a person. Choke you from the inside out.” He can’t help but imagine the pain, the fear that would come with that experience. How one person could have so much power sent spikes of fear through his body.

“Until we met you. Spencer, did you know that you’re the new record holder? When I knew you as a child, I knew you had immense power, but I never imagined you’d be a seventeen,” she smirked, excitement present in her demeanor.

His eyes widen, fear lacing through every nerve. A seventeen? The pen may be mightier than the sword, but there was no feasible way that little Spencer Reid was a seventeen. He was the weakest out of the whole team, barely scraping his way into the paranormal branch by a technicality. He felt himself choking on a question, needing answers from these mystery people, hands shaking violently, sending a riotous clinking noise throughout the room.

She stands back up, satisfaction oozing out of every pore in her body. She had gotten exactly what she had wanted.

“Here’s some light reading for you, Spencer. We’ll be back in four hours. Enjoy the alone time while it lasts,” Marsha crowed. She flipped open the file placed on the table, snaked her arm through Harry’s, and proudly trotted out of the room, a sly smile cutting through her porcelain face.

After a few deep breaths, Spencer glanced down at the file laid out neatly in front of him, close enough to turn the pages of paper even with the handcuffs.

His own face, only six years old, stared back at him.

Hotch feels like he’s going to be sick. They let it happen again, even after swearing that nothing even remotely close to the Hankel incident would ever occur again.

The six (god, it should be _seven_ ) of them were seated around the table in the humid police department conference room. Prentiss was stony, expression firm and hardened. Morgan was furiously scribbling away at a notebook, with Penelope holding his free hand, red eyes melancholy and resigned. Rossi was pacing, boring a hole in the corkboard with his eyes. JJ still hadn’t come out of the bathroom, having run through the entire precinct to slam the restroom door behind her upon hearing the news.

And Hotch, the great big leader, was sitting at the table, head in his hands, no idea even where to start. The stakes had just skyrocketed, with a hostage (their friend) in the clutches of an unstable unsub with abilities. The odds were stacked against them, and the one person they needed to crack the case was missing.

A mere two hours ago, JJ had rolled into the office early, claiming something felt off and that she was sure she was missing something. She had been the one to break the case, connecting Mrs. Vandevorde to be the same woman in the park after recognising her photo in the staff file from the college.

The school didn’t accept visitors until nine on weekdays, so the entire team was stuck in wait, anxiously trying to call the counselor and getting no response. A warrant would take hours to get processed, forcing the team to wait for the good will of the principal.

The yellowed clock on the wall read 8:45, its dull plastic face covered by a cage similar to those in school gymnasiums. At this, Hotch immediately stood up.

“Garcia, Morgan? I need you to come with me to the school. Search...” he clears his throat, “Search the counselor’s room for anything incriminating. Meet me at the car in five.”

Hotch has been trying to be confident, strong. Display his usual behavior, acting as the sturdy, reliable member of the team. But anyone can tell that his foundations are cracking, fear about to slit the man wide open.

The three of them burst into the principal’s office at exactly nine, demanding keys and answers and wanting to know where the hell the oddly suspicious counselor is. The agents were in and out of the main office in two minutes, anger and fear towards anyone who dared to question them causing others to veer out of their way.

The door to the counselor’s room was unlocked and pushed aside in record time, Morgan almost opting to kick down, until Hotch gave him a fatherly look of almost-disappointment.

The office space was virtually the same, photos still configured oddly on the wall, filing cabinets and motivational posters speckled around the room. Mrs. Vandevorde’s name was emblazoned on a metal nameplate, resting like a silent threat on the desk.

Garcia was currently rifling through every drawer and crevice, trying to find any lick of technology that she could gather information from. Morgan had squeezed himself into the small closet that not a day before had caught Prentiss’ eye. Hotch was flipping through files in the leftmost cabinet, the one he had seen the woman take files out of during their prior meeting. Nothing was standing out, until Morgan declared “Guys, there’s something in here that you should see.”

His tall frame was cramped into the small room, thick finger outstretched and pointing at an odd panel in the wall. “Do you think it’s a false door?” he queried.

“Only one way to find out,” Hotch replied, to which Morgan pressed on the panel. It fell out easily, caught by his outstretched palm. Setting the thin plank down, Morgan inserted his hand into the neat hole carved into the wall, fingers finding purchase on what felt like thick pieces of paper. Garcia and Hotch were still hovering outside the door, looking curiously at the other man. Pulling his hand out, Morgan now realized that they were photos.

A woman was gazing skyward, hair splayed out in every direction. Her skin was pale, lips blue and cracked, thin nose crusted with dried blood. The photo was a closeup of her face, framing the deep gash resting on her forehead, arching from her brow to her hairline.

Garcia gasped, eyes frozen on the graphic image held in the other’s hand. Morgan flipped to the next picture, and the next. One after another, there were at least fifteen photos all like the first, depicting both young and old dead by no accident.

Morgan had now stepped out of the closet, pictures clasped firmly in his hand. He couldn’t look at them anymore, feeling claustrophobic and trapped in the small room with the violent images. He placed the photos facedown on the desk, going to comfort Garcia, who was splayed out in the chair behind the desk.

The woman was staring at a file that was lying inconspicuously on the desk, manilla folder just like any other in the room’s many filing cabinets. The only difference that made this one stand out was the fact that it was sitting on the desk, out and ready to be seen. 

Timidly, Garcia opened the folder, Hotch now sitting adjacent from her, Morgan leaning over her shoulder.

A small, bespectacled boy’s photo was the first in the folder. He was young, maybe five or six, with large, horn rimmed frames that were too big for his thin face and magnified his hazel eyes. His long, curly hair hung past his ears, stopping before his shoulders, colored a medium brown. There was something oddly recognizable about this boy. 

The puzzle of his familiarity was solved as soon as Garcia moved the small photo from its paperclip, revealing the words on the next piece of paper.

SPENCER REID, AGE 6.  
LAS VEGAS, NV.  
ABILITIES: UNKNOWN.  
RISK: HIGH.  
REASON FOR ENROLLMENT: Mother and Father reported items exploding when child was distressed. Claims of child being a danger to himself and others, supposedly causing a peer to be hospitalized from outburst. Child assumed to have above average intelligence, cause for more concern by parents.  
SENIOR HANDLER: Marsha Greenwood.  
TYPE OF ENROLLMENT: Full time. Room and board paid by state.

Spencer’s eyes glanced over the information, foreign and odd to him. He was distantly hoping that this was some kind of hallucination induced by the concussion he likely had. Scanning downward, there was the beginning of a thick stack of notes. He started to read the first entry.

M. GREENWOOD.  
MAR. 20, 1987.  
DAY 1.

Spencer was hesitant to open up to me about the incidents, especially without his parents present. After persuasion, he informed me that when he makes things happen, he has to focus on a sound first. This leads me to believe that he can manipulate sound, to an extent. I am unsure to what end. Further data is needed.

Confusion is thick in the room, with Garcia looking up from the paper to her coworkers. Their faces were distraught, bewildered. She spoke up.

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

“And what do you think it means?” Morgan questions, tension racking every bone in his body.

Garcia doesn’t answer. Wordlessly, she flicks to the only other page in the file.

M. GREENWOOD.  
FEB. 17, 1988.  
DAY 334.  
Spencer cannot be controlled by anything or anyone. We have decided to use the last resort. Child will take 10 mg of Golazapim every week to ensure safety. This untested drug, if successful, will negate abilites completely. Inform drug company that name of drug must be masked on every bottle, child is too smart to be fooled by a fake name. Though we have tried, I regretfully agree with my colleagues. His abilities are just too strong to control. He will be released back into his Mother’s custody. We must hope he never comes to learn the truth.

Spencer had reached the bottom of the stack of notes, devouring the information. He didn’t know what to do with it, now. His mind wandered to Marsha, and her intentions. He knew, deep down, that they were going to spell disaster. He just had to hope that the BAU was able to find him before it ever got to that point.

The agents were struck with fear at this new evidence. Reid, the baby of the group, born when Hotch was graduating high school. Too smart for his own good, constantly getting himself into trouble and worming his way out with nothing but his brain. They could believe in the miraculous, but this?

“We- we should get back. We have to get back to the station,” Hotch said, dazed. He pushed himself out of the chair with his hands, one then rising to his forehead to hold his head.

“What the hell are we going to tell them?” Morgan asked, fear in his deep brown eyes. He never looked fearful. It made Garcia more worried than she already was.

“We have to tell them everything we know. Garcia, I’m going to need you to look into- into Reid. His past.” Hotch was now at the door, anxious to leave the room. He was glancing at Garcia, gauging her expression. She looked upset for a split second, until acceptance washed over her face. She nodded slightly.

Morgan snatched up the photos and the file from her desk, and moved to follow after Hotch. He held his free hand out towards Garcia, who then grasped it like a lifeline.

She looked up at him. “What are we going to do?”

He paused. “I don’t know, babygirl. I really don’t know.”

Four hours and sixteen minutes. That was how much time had passed since Marsha and her guard dog Harry had left. She could be coming back at any moment, he knew.

Over the last hour, he had noticed something odd. As the time wore on, he felt more and more like his senses had been dialed upward, like someone cranking the knobs on a stereo. He noticed every sound, every slight movement. It was bizarre, and truthfully, frightened him.

She had said something about his meds wearing off before she left, though he could only think of the mild anti anxiety medication he took daily. The file was helping him put together the pieces, but still leaving holes in the puzzle. If anything, the ‘reading material’ she had given him only sent him spiraling into confusion further.

He heard someone’s heels clicking down the hallway. They were a size seven, one and a half inch heel, black glossy leather. The information just popped into his head. He had no idea how he knew any of that. It was startling.

The door squeaked open, revealing a beaming Marsha. She had changed into a thin green dress, hem reaching her knees. It glittered in the dim lights, tight fit accentuating her body. Her hair was curled inwards like a forties bombshell, Marilyn Monroe clearly being at the forefront of Marsha’s mind when creating her look. Her one hand was holding a champagne flute, which she brought up to her blood red lips, sipping gently. She sat down across from him at the table, setting the glass down daintily and placing a clipboard with paper next to it.

“Congratulations, Spence. Is it okay if I call you Spence?” she trilled, not waiting for an answer before continuing. 

“The plan is working out perfectly, as I knew it would. Although there were some unknown variables, they have since smoothed themselves out.” Marsha smiled.

Leaning forward, she pulled a key from somewhere in her dress. With a flourish, she dramatically unlocked the cuffs that were restraining him to the table. Spencer rubbed his wrists, confusion simmering in his eyes.

“Now, the real fun begins. Are you ready to start?” she asked, green eyes humorous and light.

He hesitated, then nodded carefully. Better to go along with her than resist and be harmed more than he already was.

Marsha smiled, wide and venomous. She stood up calmly, leaving the glass on the table but grabbing the clipboard. She stretched out her other hand towards Reid.

He took it, pulling himself up with her support.

“Great. Follow me, Spence. We’re going to have a great time together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think?? Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, along with any predictions of what will happen next (I love to hear what you think). Until next time ;))


	3. i’m not who i feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again. I am so very sorry for the delay (I said two weeks, it was a month). I had a LOT of trouble writing this chapter. I felt like everyone was so out of character and the plot was weak and- ugh. :/ I hope you enjoy this chapter, all things considered. 
> 
> Also, I remembered that JJ is pregnant in season 4, when I said this was set, but let’s just ignore that. It’s an AU. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos always very appreciated!!
> 
> Chapter title taken from the song Sandra by Holy Holy.

JJ had emerged from the bathroom not five minutes ago, red rimmed eyes still watery and glazed. Emily had come into the room, talking sweetly to her through the stall door. It had taken a lot of convincing for her to finally creep out of the stall, but eventually swallowing her sorrow to help Spencer.

She was seated at the table now, her hands clasped like a prayer, fingers lacing into each other. Emily still has a watchful eye set on her, worry painted across her features. She was tempted to place a hand over JJ’s, but decided against it, something in her stalling out at the thought. Rossi was flicking through the information about the enigmatic Mrs. Vandevorde, but was still stalling at the motive.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “What I don’t understand is why Reid was taken.” 

“Well, he does have abilites,” Prentiss mutters, earning her a pointed look from Rossi. “Yes, but why him? From what we know, he has the most mundane ability of us all. Why abduct someone almost average?” he queried.

This made JJ look to Rossi, a new infuriated expression glinting in her eyes. Her lips were drawn in a thin, angry line. “Spence is anything but average,” she seethed. Emily was thankful she wasn’t on the receiving end of JJ’s fury, her eyes about to burn a hole into Rossi. “Do you know how many cases he has been the key to solving? Spence sees things in a way we could never even imagine. You wish you had his ability.” Her words were cold and biting, complimenting her tense posture, lithe frame leaning closer to Rossi.

“JJ, that’s enough,” Emily interjected firmly, a hand now settled on JJ’s forearm. It seemed appropriate now, seeing as the latter was about to lose her cool on their boss.

JJ turned her wrathful gaze to Emily, only for her face to fall. All the anger slid off, resignation now painting her light features. “I’m sorry, Rossi.” Her response was feeble, melancholy. “I- I’m just- sorry.”

Rossi softens at this. “Listen, JJ, it’s okay. I understand your concern for Reid. Really, I do. I’m just trying to find him as fast as possible, and that requires me to bring up some hard questions.” He had gone into full dad mode, and in a different situation Emily would tease him for this. But her common sense was kicking in, whispering for her to keep her mouth shut.

Just as she was about to ask when the others would be back, the three who had left for the college came wandering in through the door, Hotch opening and closing it fluidly after Morgan and Garcia had filed in after him.

They looked, in crude terms, like shit. Garcia was paler than usual, jeweled hands clasped tightly on a manilla folder, pressed against her chest like a lifeline. Morgan was virtually guiding her to the table with a firm hand placed on her back, worried grimace adoring his face. Hotch was eerily calm, clearly trying to hold the other two together, but Emily could tell he was just about to break.

The silence in the room was deafening, anxiety lingering in the air above each and every one of them.

“What did you find?” Prentiss asked softly, directing the question to Hotch. Garcia, seated next to JJ, just threw the file she had held so close to her a moment ago into the center of the circle as a response.

She hesitantly sits down on Garcia’s right, the other two in the dark about the information moving to hover over her shoulders, JJ on her left, Rossi on her right. She wonders what could have the other three agents so rattled, what information could shake them so badly.

“In there,” Garcia whispers. “Just read what’s in there.”

They had been walking for at least two minutes, Spencer for once not counting every second that passed. He was too distracted by every minute detail that was making itself startlingly known, sound bombarding his every thought.

Marsha was still holding his hand, his left clasped in her right. He would have thought it romantic, if not for the situation. Only eight percent of all hostages develop Stockholm Syndrome, he thought, the statistic popping into his mind unbidden. He hated that, sometimes. Right now it was a welcome distraction from the worry gnawing deep in his gut, stronger than ever. He didn’t really know if it’s because of the fact he’s a hostage, or because he’s off his anti-anxiety medication. He hoped it’s the former, because that would prove that alprazolam really does work, contrary to his therapist’s belief. It’s almost like an active experiment, albeit with a new variable.

Marsha opened the door at the end of the hall, where the two of them are now standing. He hadn’t even realized that they had reached the end, Marsha’s absent hand snapping him out of the reflective stupor. She gestured for him to enter, and so he did, caution in every step.  
The room he was standing in reminds him of a prison cafeteria, with large glass skylights hovering over the vast room, at least fifteen feet above his head. The more he looks, the realization sets in that it is a cafeteria, with designated spaces for food off to his left and folded tables compacted on every wall. The only object out in the room was a rectangular folding table, probably the same as the ones adorning the sides of the room like a bizarre decoration. It was placed innocently in the center of the floor, ten wine glasses set up in a straight line resting on the table’s surface.

Marsha’s heels click over to the side of the table furthest from where he was standing, probably looking like a gaping fish. He had thought, before, that he was in some small medical facility, but this showed evidence that he was in a large, almost hospital-like building.

“Come on, Spence. Join me over here,” she says, voice echoing through the empty space. Her hand is outstretched to him, finger curling in and out, beckoning him closer.

He hesitantly stepped closer to the table, watching the other’s microexpressions while trying (and failing) to not spiral into a flurry of fear and confusion.

“I know you’re probably wondering what’s happening right now. I know I would be. Spence, you have nothing to be afraid of,” she said, clearly trying to sound genuine. He could tell, though, that something was off.

“I have some notes from your previous time here. This is just an experiment to see if everything is still working the way it was before.” Her hands pick up a small, leather notebook, opening it to a page lined by the silk bookmark.

There is a lull in the conversation, Marsha gathering whatever she needs for what is about to happen. Reid runs his fingers along the edge of his sweater vest, thinking idly about how he wished he hadn’t slept in his clothes the night before, well. This. He picks at a loose thread on the hem.

“Now, Spencer, I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?” Marsha asks, like she is talking to a child. It equally annoys and frightens him. After a second, he nods, realizing she actually wanted an answer. “Good.”

“First thing’s first. I really hate to do this, but I don’t think I have a choice. Spence, a little bird told me that you wouldn’t use your abilites to escape or harm me,” she mutters, voice sending a shiver down his spine. A weight settles in his mind, and he immediately knows that what she has done worked. He can feel, deep in his bones, that if he tries to do anything against her word, something will happen. Something bad. He loathes this feeling, a toxic mix of helplessness and confusion, like drowning in a sea with no clue of how or why.

She smiles, large and jagged. “That’s it.”

He wants to say something to her, but can’t find the words.

“Now, Spencie, I’m going to make a sound in a few seconds. And when I do, I want you to only focus on that sound, nothing else.” Marsha’s reading out of the journal, finger tracing the words scrawled on the page. “I want you to see if you can take that sound, and shatter the furthermost glass with it.”

At that, his jaw hits the proverbial floor. His eyes are likely comically large, shock spiking through his thin frame. Even if the person watching wasn’t a profiler, they could tell that his tension had just been dialed up to the highest degree.

“What?”

“You heard me. Shatter the glass.”

“But-wh-I-I can’t do that,” he sputtered out, hands flying around rapidly, punctuating his sentence.

She sighs, frustration seeping into her tone. “Maybe the old Spencer couldn’t, but I bet this one can. Just try.”

He ponders his options. On one hand, there was no way on Earth that he could do the grandiose things she was proposing, even if this so-called Harry man could read ‘potentials’ (which he was still on the fence about). But on the other, he was being held hostage by a clearly dangerous woman and her accomplice. Not complying could spell disaster for him. Although the team would argue, he did occasionally have a sense of self-preservation.

After some hesitation, he quietly muttered, “Alright.”

Marsha smiles again, clearly pleased. “Great. Now, are you ready?” He nods. She pulls a tuning fork out of her pocket, tongs thick and silver.

She recoils her arm, and strikes it on the table.

At first, Reid doesn’t know what to do. He remembers her saying to focus on the sound and the sound alone, so he opts to close his eyes. As soon as he does, the change is obvious. He can feel the soundwaves vibrating in the air, lingering gently like ghosts. The feeling is simultaneously foreign and familiar, like a memory he couldn’t quite place. He draws the energy in, feeling it build beneath his skin, pressure increasing behind his eyes. When the energy has reached its peak, burning inside him, he pushes it _out_.

A resounding shatter comes from above, and Spencer opens his eyes to see the skylights fracture and fragment, raining glass pieces down upon the two of them. The wine glasses have been pulverized, the glass almost like dust on the table, not even solid chunks. Every window is cracked, fractures lining the center of the panes. There’s small chunks of glass in his curls.  
His expression is one of pure horror. When the two were telling him about ranking a seventeen and their whole monologue, he could deny it. Could pretend it’s not real, not actually true. That the guy was a crackpot, that they accidentally abducted the wrong FBI agent. But now? He couldn’t refute it if he tried, no argument strong enough to beat the startling display of power he had inadvertently just performed.

And through it all, Marsha’s shocked expression morphs into one of evil glee.

“You, Doctor Spencer Reid, have surpassed my expectations. Let’s keep working, shall we?”

The agents were numb. That was the only word fit to describe their complete detachment from all the events around them, the hustle and bustle of the police station. After the shocking revelations from a rather enlightening file, they were all left adrift in a sea of confusion.  
Garcia was leaning into Morgan, head resting on his strong shoulders. Rossi was muttering softly to Hotch, something about ‘targeting’ and ‘planned all along’. JJ only caught snippets of the conversation, distracted by her own thoughts.

But there was Emily, still holding her hand, stroking it gently with her thumb. JJ really did love her.

“What do you think she wants with him?” JJ blurts, thought spilling out of her mouth unbidden. Emily looks surprised by the sudden want to talk, but answers nonetheless.

“I-” she pauses. “I don’t know. But Reid’s smart, JJ. Smarter than all of us combined. We just have to trust that he’ll figure out a way to keep himself safe for the time being. We will find him, Jayje. I promise.” Her eyes are serious and firm, proof of her commitment to her word and to her teammates. Sometimes it amazed JJ how loyal Emily was, how trusting. She had known her for not even two years and yet the two were closer than JJ had ever known two people to be. Despite the fact it sounded cliché, she felt like Emily was her other half. She would never tell her that, though. There were some things JJ couldn’t ( _wouldn’t_ ) admit to herself.

She noticed, now, that Garcia had moved positions, not leaning on Morgan but sitting upright and glaring at her computer screen, determination in her eyes.

“Sir, what exactly did you want me to look for?” she asked, voice detached and borderline robotic. JJ didn’t blame her. They were all disassociating to some extent.  
Hotch stoically strode over to where Garcia was seated, pulling up a chair to lean over her shoulder. 

“Just start with the basic details. Anything you can find on this- institution that he was enrolled in.” No ‘Spencer’, not even the nickname of ‘Reid’. She could tell Hotch felt guilty, the emotion pulsing off of him in waves so strong she didn’t even have to concentrate to feel.

Garcia quickly typed something into her databases, fingers flying past the keys in a way that only their tech guru could manage. In less than five seconds, multiple sources and articles about one Doctor Spencer Reid were displayed on the monitor, heart-wrenchingly familiar.

“Spencer Reid was born October 28th, 1981 in Las Vegas, Nevada. He- his parents divorced when he was seven, and-” she stops reading, frozen. “And was released from the custody of Farview Sanitarium a month after the divorce.”

They’re all looking at each other, fear and hope and confusion mingling to create an odd atmosphere. Garcia’s clacking away at her keyboard again, when she pulls up a new webpage.

“Farview Sanitarium was founded in 1978 by private donors Harold Dennison and Marsha Greenwood, both gifted with abilities and hoping to teach others how to handle their own. The facility was located on the outer city limits of Las Vegas, with the main building on two acres of land. The sanitarium was closed in 1989 after both donors died a very sudden death, and the facility fell into bankruptcy.” Garcia was reciting the entire paragraph, each word laced with concern. As she kept scrolling, the images of two people appeared at the bottom of the screen.

On the left is a picture of a man JJ has never seen before, a defining scar marring his face. The right picture, however, is someone she knows.

The woman from the park, who had stumbled on to the crime scene with just a little too much interest, was gazing back at her. Her brown hair was immaculately styled, glossy brown straightened down. Her lips were drawn back into a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her emerald eyes.

“Oh my god,” Emily exclaims, drawing JJ out of her thoughts. “That’s the woman we interviewed at the college- Mrs. Vandevorde. The counselor.” Her face was drawn into a look of shock, eyebrows creased together underneath her dark bangs.

“Wait- that’s the woman we saw at the park, right Morgan? The one who walked onto the scene?” JJ asked, turning to face the man, who is equally as surprised as the others.

“Yeah- um, yeah, that’s her,” he muttered, the words seemingly getting stuck in his throat.

“Is no one going to comment on the fact that this picture is over thirty years old? How in the hell does this woman look exactly the same?” Rossi declared, virtually shouting at the others in the room. It was clear to JJ with a little bit of prodding that Rossi was 90% confused and 10% hysterical.

“Is no one going to talk about how she’s supposed to be dead?” Garcia interjected, hands gesturing wildly at the screen. “Last time I checked, people don’t just- walk out of their graves!”

Everyone’s talking over each other, frazzled theories and pieces of conversations thrown around the room in a whirlwind. It was overwhelming, voices bleeding into each other, everything happening at once, making JJ want to crawl under table and hide, until -

“SHUT UP!” Emily hollered, slamming her palm down on the table with a resounding smack. “Can you guys just calm yourselves for _one second_?”

That gets them to stop. The entire team was staring at Prentiss, an angry nebula of control and power amongst her colleagues. She took a deep breath in through her nose, closing her eyes for a second, fingers of her right hand resting on the bridge of her nose.

“Look, I know we’re all stressed, and worried, but _screaming_ at each other will not get us anywhere,” she said. “I shouldn’t even have to say that,” she muttered, tacking onto the last statement, more for herself than anyone else.

The team looked like a litter of kicked puppies, eyes overflowing with guilt and embarrassment. It was exactly like Emily was scolding a group of children. It would strike JJ as humorous in any other moment, but not this one.

“Sorry, Emily,” Garcia whispered. A chorus of sorries from others came shortly after, each member uttering an apology under their breath.

JJ strode over to the woman’s side, standing near before whispering “Thanks for calling them out,” into Prentiss’ ear. The latter turned to look at her, a smirk dancing on her light lips.

“Of course.” She was rubbing her thumb across JJ’s hand again, making her light up with a smile before returning to her cool, composed stature.

Hotch cleared his throat, causing everyone to turn to look at him. “Garcia, did you get an address for the facility? I think that investigating that location should be our first order of business.” His air of leadership had returned, confidence in every bone. This was the man they all knew, strong and unshakable in everything he did.

“Yeah, um. Yeah. It’s right here,” she answered, gesturing widely towards the monitor set on the table.

Hotch’s thin lips were pulled back into a firm line, determination painting his features. “Then let’s go.”

His hand was shaking, he noticed distantly. The plastic fork clenched in his lithe, pale fingers was wobbling in a rhythmic fashion, tremors like a miniature earthquake. It was jostling his cup of half-eaten Jello. It was even green, his favorite.

Marsha daintily twirled her fork, tines catching the spaghetti so neatly arranged on her plate. The sauce felt more and more like blood with every passing second.

They’d been practicing almost all afternoon, Marsha placing items in front of him with the sole purpose of destruction on her mind. And the shocking thing was that he could do it. He could do the vile things she wanted him to do, and he could do it somewhat easily. It made Reid feel sick, the anxiety stewing in his stomach heavily all day.

After swallowing her bite, Marsha looked up to him, emerald eyes meeting hazel. “So, Spencer, we have some- things that we’d like you to take care of,” she said. “Very _important_ things.”

“Like what?” The words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He rubs his raw wrist again, praying he didn’t make a misstep.

If anything, Marsha enjoyed the question. Her eyes almost light up, interest sparking behind them. “Loose ends, from a long time ago. Maybe a few new ones, too.” The fork is spinning again.

This answer concerned him. What did she mean, loose ends? The phrasing certainly implied something illegal, which was much farther past the line than Reid was willing to cross. He knew she didn’t take him here for the sole reason of experimenting with his abilites, but the idea that he was to be some kind of weapon for her was terrifying. He couldn’t dwell on the thought too long.  
He prodded the Jello, watching it jiggle lightly. The sandwich on his plate still lay there, half eaten.

“What- what happens if I don’t want to do these things?”

She looks intrigued by the question. “Spence, honey, I don’t think that decision is for you to make.” Her painted lips were smiling slyly. “You forget yourself.”

The cracked glass panels reveal a beautiful sunset, red bleeding into orange and purple like a painting from days gone by. The dim light hits her strangely, seemingly sliding off of her skin. If he really squints his eyes, deblurring his sight, there’s almost a green pallor to her complexion. Her eyes are too milky, her jaw too bony.  
It was starting to dawn on him that she looked exactly the same as she did twenty years ago. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed before, but now that he did, the results of the revelation were staggering. She had no wrinkles, her skin identical and face unchanged. He could only wonder how it was possible.

The doors to the cafeteria opened swiftly, making a loud noise as the doorstop desperately tried to hold them back, causing Reid to wince. Harry had his large hands on both doors, arms open wide. He looked concerned, even worried. Reid wondered what could’ve caused such a reaction from a man who was so stoic the last time he had encountered him. He thought he’d probably be getting his answer soon, though.

“Marsha, we have a problem. If you could-” he clears his throat, poorly disguised as a signal- “expedite this matter, that would be great.” Harry’s now walking towards the table, and Reid holds back every instinct telling him to move away. He drops the plastic fork on the tray.

Marsha stands up, smoothing down the wrinkles in the silky fabric of her dress with thin fingers. She extends one hands towards him from the other side of the table.

“Come on, Spencer. It’s showtime.”

He knows it isn’t smart, knows this is the last thing he should be saying to his captor. Nevertheless, he gathers every bit of courage stored within himself, and mutters out, “No.”

They both look taken aback, Marsha’s expression being similar to someone who had just been struck in the face. Harry’s eyebrows move downwards, indicating anger.  
“ _What_ did you say, asshole?” Harry seethed, leaning downwards to loom over Spencer. His eyes were burning with anger.

Marsha placed a hand on his chest, and pushed him back. “Calm down, Harry. I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding. _Tell him_ , Spencer,” she gritted out. It was the least composed he had seen her, actually letting some of her emotion bleed through the steel facade she upheld in the day he had known her.

“No. I said no, and I meant it.” Reid glared up at the two, trying to look as intimidating as possible. It was harder than he thought. His hand was tracing the spot where his gun would typically lie on his hip.

She sighs, looking mildly inconvenienced, and Reid could tell she was trying to downplay her anger. She then draws her lips back in a forced smile, teeth glinting unnaturally under the light of the windows surrounding the three.

“Look, Spence, I know you’re scared, but you’re in good hands. I promise you’ll be alright.”

“I’m not concerned about myself. What other innocent people are you going to have me hurt?” he spits out, just as furious as the other two. He had been holding back his fear, his anger, until now. He was letting it all out, pulling out all of the stops.

She moved towards him, sitting down next to him on the bench. Placed a cold hand on his left shoulder.

The contact startled him, hating to be touched even by his friends. His hand instinctively caught her wrist, turning to grab it harshly. Reid looked surprised, for a second, before hardening his expression again. They look at each other, both staring deep into the other’s eyes, like a contest, fighting over who would be the first to disengage.

He looked down, and then gently dropped her wrist.

“I said no.”

She stands up, and strides over to Harry, still rubbing her wrist, redness blooming at the point of contact.

“Alright.” Marsha paused for a second, seemingly unsure what to say. “If that’s what you want.” She then looked over to the other man and gently nodded to him. “Harry, I’m sure you can- persuade him.” The wave of calm over her expression has returned, Reid noticed, before it all went to shit.

Harry lunged towards him, those broad hands reaching for Spencer, trying to find purchase on his clothes, his sprawling limbs. Reid, on the other hand, was scrambling his way off the bench, attempting to run for the open door, having realized what was about to happen. His legs were pumping faster than he could ever remember, Morgan’s distant voice in his head telling him “ _Kid, you really should work out more_.”

He’s at the threshold of the door, pushing himself towards it with the little strength he had left, when something came colliding into him, forcing him to the ground.

He felt all of the oxygen force its way out of his lungs in one sudden burst, the impact to the ground sending a spike of pain into his nose after it slammed into the linoleum floor with a sickening crack. He can feel the thick blood pouring out of his nose, dripping into his mouth.

Reid is pulled out of his thoughts by a sharp tug in his long hair (JJ’s teasing glances, “ _Wow, Spence, are you trying to be a hippie or Jesus? You need to cut that mop_ ). Harry was pushing him down to the ground, one elbow pinning him down while the other arm was free to yank at his hair. 

He’s pulled up in one fluid motion, Harry jostling him roughly and holding him firmly. 

“You’re going to regret that,” he roared, before landing a swiftly placed punch directly on his cheekbone, sending him back down to the ground harshly. 

He was terrified. Wheezing for breath, he tried to reach for his ability, to focus on the sounds around him. But where he could typically feel the energy lacing in the air around him, the was nothing. Only an empty void.

He was out of options. For all of his intelligence, his talents, Spencer Reid found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 _I will be okay_ , he thought. _I just have to hold out until the team gets here. I’ll be okay_.

The SUV roared to life, Morgan’s firm foot pressed down on the gas, pushing it as far as it would go. They were on some hick road, one lane and seemingly never-ending. The car jerked aggressively past the stop sign, tires squealing on the pavement.

“God, Morgan, could you stop doing that?” JJ huffed, glancing up from her map to look pointedly at the man. “You’re concerned, we all are, but getting in a car crash is not going to help anyone.” She goes back to glaring at the map in the fading light, tilting it to read the tiny print.

“Well, excuse me for trying to _find him_ as fast as possible,” Morgan bit back.

“You guys need to stop the in-fighting. What are we, five?” Prentiss interjects from the backseat. She leaned forward over the console, shifting her head left to right to glare at both of the agents. Her necklace swung with the movement.

“Well, if someone could teach Morgan how to drive, I wouldn’t have anything to complain about, now would I?” JJ hissed, keeping her eyes locked on the paper in her hands.

“You know what-” Morgan starts to speak, before Prentiss slams her fist into his forearm, knuckles connecting with firm muscles.

“Shit, Prentiss, what the hell was that for?” Morgan cried, moving his arm away from the attacker while JJ almost laughed to herself from the passenger seat.

“That’s for acting like you’re the only one who cares.” She paused. “And for almost crashing the car about five times.”

That elicits a bellowing laugh from JJ, eyes glittering with humor. _I needed that_ , she seemed to say. She smiled towards Prentiss, who returned it with a timid, closed-lipped smirk.

Morgan was grumbling under his breath, fingers angrily tapping against the steering wheel, gazing with intent towards the road ahead.

“Turn right,” JJ said, pointing towards a narrow gravel road, shooting off from the other main path they were currently travelling. He looked up at her, before asking “Are you sure?”

She sighed. “Yes, Morgan, I’m sure.” The car went veering off to the right, following the beaten path with gravel pinging the side of the car rhythmically.

Prentiss could tell that the two were at the end of their fuses, one small spark ready to light the dormant explosives. They both cared about Reid, that much was obvious, but it was getting to be a little much. JJ’s mother hen instincts paired with Morgan’s angry protective streak was a lethal concoction that she didn’t want to be in the middle of.

The road was much narrower, trees closing in for a claustrophobic effect. The headlights did virtually nothing, beams barely penetrating a foot in front of the hood of the car. It felt like they were about to be swallowed into the inky darkness of the forest. If anyone said there said they weren’t afraid, they would be lying. Prentiss fiddled with her necklace, rubbing her thumb across the smooth surface.

Just as Prentiss was about to ask JJ if they were going in the right direction, the trees opened to reveal a massive, medical looking building. It had huge glass windows lining almost every side, revealing the rooms inside. There were no lights on, save for a large area on the side of the building furthest from the agents. The sun had since dipped below the horizon line, leaving the area in almost complete darkness, with only the faintest traces of light bleeding out.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Morgan breaks it with a “Well, I think we’re in the right place.” He looked to JJ, who gave him an equally worried glance.

“Let’s just find Reid and get out of here,” Prentiss interjected, lips pressed into a firm line. The three stepped out of the SUV, slamming the doors with little caution. They looked to the other agents, who had rolled up behind them a minute before, waiting.

To Prentiss, it felt like they were about to storm a castle, every knight in the kingdom at the ready. They had their swords drawn, their eyes on the treasure. Even a maiden perched precariously in a tower, awaiting rescue. She just prayed the maiden wasn’t winding himself further into danger, but had a bad feeling he was.

The shock had since worn off, the stinging of his nose down to a dull burn. The room before him had stopped spinning a minute ago, Marsha’s furious face now in more detail for him to see. Her green eyes were burning with contempt, lips drawn into a snarl. She looked terrifying, finally reminding him of the same woman who had knocked him out in the dim light of a hotel.

“After _everything I did for you_!” she screeched, slamming her hands down on the table before him. His wrists were bound again, rough rope holding them together and looped through the bench below him, so he couldn’t stand up. It felt too close to what had happened almost two years ago in a shed in the woods. 

_You can’t think about that right now. Find points of leverage, escape options_ , the logical part of his mind whispered.

“I treated you with nothing but _kindness_! I showed you your potential, opened up a door for you to walk through, a door of endless opportunities! And what do you do? You slam the fucking door back into my face.” 

Marsha is still screaming, resembling a banshee from Celtic folklore. Harry is just glaring at him from a few paces away, trying to bore a hole into his forehead with just his eyes, arms crossed roughly over his chest.

It dawns on him, then, as Marsha is shrieking at him, rising in octaves with every sentence. _She didn’t use her ability. She didn’t persuade me to do what she wanted. She has a limit_ , he realized. That could be used to his advantage.

He looked up at her for the first time in minutes, staring her directly in the eyes. “I don’t want your opportunities. I want you to let me go.”

If it was possible, her scowl deepened. Her thin brows drew down, long nails gripping the table with determination.

“ _What_?” she seethed, anger still growing behind her eyes.

“I don’t want what you want for me.”

She laughed, a harsh, barking sound. Turned away from him for a second to face Harry, before looking back. She leaned down, glaring at him at eye level.

“ _You_ don’t know what’s best for you. Clearly, seeing your life decisions,” Marsha spat. “Though, I shouldn’t be surprised. With a basket case for a mother and an absent father, I couldn’t expect any better.”

Reid is taken aback, offended. “Don’t talk about my mom that way.”

“I’m just speaking the truth, Spence. But what I can’t understand is why someone like you would have such gifts. Why would such talent be wasted on a bastard like you?”

Harry has now moved to stand behind him, removing the ropes quickly before grabbing him again with firm hands.

“And god, don’t get me started on your team.” She said _team_ like a curse word, dirty on her lips. 

“They’re quite possibly the worst people I’ve ever met. An old, washed up former agent turned writer who can see the past? Why would you ever need to do that?”

Reid struggled against Harry’s arms, but the other man was too strong. His iron grip held him fast. “Rossi is one of the best men I’ve ever met.”

“And Morgan? Who looks at you with puppy-dog eyes every second, and a protective streak a mile long? Do you think he really loves you, or just wants someone to take care of?” she spat. Marsha then pointed downwards with her dainty finger, causing Harry to throw Reid down to the ground. His head makes an audible crack when he collided with the ground.

“JJ and Prentiss? Your _lady friends_? Who can’t confront each other, dote over you like a baby?”

“Stop,” Reid groaned. “Just- stop.” His comment is met by a harsh kick to his stomach by Harry, who collided his thick leather loafer into the exact location of his diaphragm.

“And Aaron Hotchner, your pseudo-father. Or- wait! That’s _Jason Gideon_.” She slammed her hand down on the table. Another kick is delivered to his stomach, causing him to wheeze with pain.

“How did it feel when Gideon _left_?” Smack of the palm. Kick to the stomach.

“You know why, don’t you. You know why he left.” Smack. Kick.

“ _I just don’t understand any of it anymore. I’m sorry_.” Gideon, sitting at the table, penning the letter he left.

“He _left_ -” Smack. Kick.

“ _There is so much more to you than meets the eye. I’m glad to know you, Spencer Reid_.” Elle, swirling a stick with an olive on it in her martini. Leaving hurriedly after a case gone bad.

“-They all left-” Smack. Kick.

“ _It’ll only be for a few weeks, Spencer. I promise_.” He can feel the pressure rising, growing exponentially below his skin, his ability returning from god knows where. Can only hear the sound of Marsha’s palm colliding with the table. Her biting words, too true for comfort.

“ _I can’t take care of you anymore_.” It’s starting to hurt, the energy burning behind his eyes.

He can see the ghosts of his team, standing in the doorway, rushing towards them. Someone’s saying his name, but he doesn’t know who.

“-because of _you_ ,” Marsha finished.

_I’m sorry Spence_

_I can’t take care of you_

_You’re one of a kind_

_It’s a pleasure to know you_

_It’s only a few days_

_I promise._

I promise.

“ _No_!” he screamed, and let the energy burst out in a shockwave of destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marsha: i’m about to end this man’s career
> 
> Reid: *uno reverse card*
> 
> Sorry (not sorry) for the cliffhanger. See you next time!!
> 
> *as of 11/16/20, I have attempted to fix some of the inconsistencies. Anything else you’re confused about will (likely) be explained in the next chapter ;)


	4. if you’re gone, then how is any of this real?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT!! I UPDATED!!  
> Yeah, sorry for taking so long to write this chapter. I don’t really have a good excuse besides major writer’s block. I am *tentatively* adding the six chapter mark because I actually have the ending planned out and it should be that long. No promises though. Although this chapter may not be what you expected, it should hopefully clear up some questions (and maybe add a few more haha).
> 
> Also, a bit of a warning in this chapter. There is a somewhat brief scene that deals with some violence, so if that bothers you, be warned. Nothing outside Criminal Minds canon-typical violence, just more intense than I’ve written in this fic so far.
> 
> Chapter title is taken from the song How by The Neighborhood.

To say that she hadn’t seen this coming would be a massive understatement. Marsha Greenwood prided herself on knowing what was coming, being prepared for every situation that was thrown her way.

But as she saw the shockwave of energy rushing towards her, she couldn’t help but wonder where she had gone wrong. She had planned everything out, spent countless hours hunched over files and information to make sure this one thing, this _one simple thing_ , went her way.

The energy knocks her back in a fraction of a second, sending her flying like a crumpled doll across the room. Distantly, she hears frantic screams of panic and confusion, but can pick out Harry’s voice amongst the crowd, screaming “Oh my God, Mar-”

“-sha! I didn’t expect to see you here!” a girl said, slamming her locker door shut as punctuation to the end of her sentence. Her thick red hair was pushed back by a chunky headband, glistening in the fluorescent light of the hallway.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect to be here either. My dad wouldn’t let me stay home today,” Marsha muttered, avoiding the other girl’s gaze while pulling her books closer to her chest.

The metal bell’s ringing signaled the end of the passing period, which successfully silenced the person she was having a one-sided conversation with.

“See you at lunch, Marshie!” she chirped, before striding away down the hall.

It took her a second to remember where she is supposed to be, and then felt the dread fill her up when she realized this period, her former study hall, was now occupied by a mandatory ‘support group’ for those with (as the school so _expertly_ worded it) special talents.

Suppressing a sigh, Marsha gathered her backpack from off the ground, hoisted it on her back, and began her trek to the school library.

It took her a mere minute to find herself amongst the bookshelves, surrounded by a rather unenthused librarian and various school banners that had been pinned onto the free wall space. Scanning the room, she spotted the table with a cheery ‘Special Students Here!’ paper taped onto its surface.

Only one other person was seated at the table, besides her smiling guidance counselor. He looked rather unhappy to be sitting there, glowering expression complemented by a striking scar cutting through his left eye all the way to his hairline. His brown hair was unruly, and his eyes seemed to be analyzing every minute detail.  
Marsha hesitantly pulled out another chair, sitting across from the mystery student. She gingerly set her messenger bag down on the floor next to her, and fluffed her curls with manicured nails.

The guidance counselor (Mr. Gardetti, she thought) clapped his hands together, and excitedly said, “Now that everyone’s here, let’s get started!” The librarian sent a dagger-like look towards him, and Mr. Gardetti sent a smile of apology back.

“Let’s start with introductions. As you two know, I’m Mr. Gardetti, and I’m a guidance counselor here at Dover South High School.” One he finished, he glanced over towards her.

“Um, my name is Marsha. I’m a senior,” she said.

The boy across from her finally looked her in the eye. When this happened, something rippled through his expression for half a second. Marsha wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been looking for his reaction towards her.

“My name’s Harold.” His eyes are still skittish, seemingly shocked by something.

“So, what special abilites do you guys have? Sharing is the cornerstone to friendship, you know,” Mr. Gardetti intoned, adding a special emphasis to the words _special abilities_.

Marsha squashed the urge to roll her eyes, and was about to answer, before her plans were interrupted by the boy’s words.

“I can see numbers. They tell me a person’s potential danger,” he muttered. His blue eyes meet hers for a second, before glancing away again.

“How very interesting! What about you Marsha, what can you do?”

“If I say a certain phrase, whatever I say after it, the other person will have to do. Obviously I won’t say the phrase now. Unless you want to be _mind controlled_ ,” she said sarcastically, wiggling her fingers with the words.

The guidance counselor looked unnerved by this, and tried to cover up his discomfort very poorly. Marsha spared a glance at Harold again, and this time smiled when he met her eyes. To her surprise, he smiled (albeit weakly) back.

Mr. Gardetti was yammering on about something different now, something about unity and friendship and the rest of that bullshit she couldn’t bring herself to care about. She looked up at the clock mounted to the wall and was surprised to find that the period was almost over, paving the way for her lunch hour. When the bell rang not a minute later, the guidance counselor sprang up and virtually sprinted out of the library with a “See you tomorrow, bye!”.

Marsha gathered her bag off of the floor and hoisted it onto her shoulder, then deciding to offer the proverbial olive branch.

“I think we made him nervous,” she said, a hint of playfulness at the edge of her voice.

Harold smirked, and muttered back “Yeah, he really doesn’t know how to handle kids with ‘special talents’.” His pale fingers made air quotes.

She began to turn and walk away from the conversation, but a lapse in her judgement changed her mind. 

Swiveling back around, she turned to face the boy once again.

“Hey, I know we just met, but- do you want to have lunch with me? I don’t really want to deal with the cheerleading squad today.”

He looked surprised by the offer, but allowed his expression to soften and smiled.

“I would love to.”

As they strode out of the library and into the hallway, the other students stared. She could tell this Harold guy was considered to be the school weirdo, and for him to be seen with an A-List cheerleader was less likely than a pig flying.

“By the way, there’s no need to call me Harold,” he offered. “My friends call me-”

“Harry. Harry!” she cried, heels clicking aggressively against the linoleum floor. Her hair was swinging aggressively behind her, hands clasped firmly around a manila folder.

E10, E12, E14, _there_! Marsha flung open the door to his office, finding her business partner mid-bite into a ham and cheese sandwich on rye bread.

“What?” he questioned, mumbling around the food in his mouth. After gaining a pointed glare from Marsha and swallowing the bite, he once again asked “ _What_?”

“We have a major problem. Well, future major problem. These people from Las Vegas brought their son in today for a consultation,” she began, pausing to gather her thoughts.

“And?” he queried. She gave him another signature glare.

“Don’t ‘ _and_ ’ me, you know I was going to continue, smartass. Anyways, I did my thing and talked to the parents and their son, to gather background information on their case. But- get this! I found out that not only does this kid have an incredibly latent and likely powerful ability, but is also measurably a genius.”

Harry looked as surprised as she felt. She carded her fingers through her permed hair, fingers snagging on the tightly wound curls. “What are the odds of that?” she questioned.

“I don’t know, low? Look, Marshie, we can figure this out. Did he open up to you, talk about the reason why he was brought to us?”

She sighed. “Not without me convincing him through my special method, if you get my gist.” She flopped down into the chair on the other side of his desk, and angled it to look around the chunky computer sitting innocently on the surface, blocking her view.

“Really? I thought you only had to do that for extreme cases.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “Must really be shy. Or have some kind of lasting trauma. How old is he?”

Marsha grabbed a chip off of his plate. “He’s six. His parents brought him in on a specific incident. Apparently he caused a vase to explode with his mind.”

Harry’s eyes widened comically. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah. That was my reaction, too. He’s going to be staying here full time, Harry. How the hell are we going to handle this kid?” she sighed, exasperated.

“Maybe we need to think about this differently. Think of the research we could conduct, the information we could gain from him! He could really open a lot of doors for us, Marsha.” Harry looked confident, leaning forward onto his elbows and gazing into her eyes fully. It made her think that maybe, just maybe, they could do this.

A week later, and she was rethinking that entire idea. 

Spencer Reid, the gifted six year old with an uncanny ability to cause her an incredible amount of problems, was seated in front of her. His small legs were crossed, fingers interlaced and then placed methodically on his knees. His horn-rimmed glasses were askew just slightly, and his small burgundy sweater was bunched slightly at his waist.

She had already had to persuade him twice today, and more times than she would like to admit earlier in the week. She was getting really sick of having to use her ability to get the boy to open up.

Marsha took a deep breath, and then broached the subject she had wanted to discuss with him today. 

“Spencer, have you been talking to the other kids like I’ve asked you to?” One wouldn’t think that such a trivial topic would cause such upset with him, but Marsha was well aware of his aversion to kids his age.

Spencer shook his head and muttered out a small “No”.

She plastered another smile on. “Listen, I know you want to read, but you really need to interact with other people like you. Making friends is one of the most important parts of life.” God, she sounded like Mr. Gardetti. It almost made her chuckle.

“I don’t need any friends,” he replied stubbornly. “I have books.”

“Well, did you do the other thing we talked about last time? Did you practice using your ability any more?” she asked gently, feeling like she was prodding a frightened deer for answers. Spencer sank down further into the couch, looking nervous. It was enough of a response  
for Marsha to draw her own conclusions.

“Spencer, we’ve talked about this. You need to get used to using your ability so you don’t hurt someone. It’s just like- um, lifting weights! You’re trying to get that muscle strong and healthy, so you need to use it and work it out. The same goes for your ability. Don’t you want to be strong and healthy?”

He was shaking his head aggressively now, fright painting his young features. “I want you to get rid of it. I don’t want it. Not now, not ever,” he insisted. His fingers are fidgeting with the hem of his sweater, little fingers picking at the strings.

“Spencer-” her thought is cut off by a growing tension in the air. In the process of even thinking about his gift, the boy in front of her has gotten so worked up that he inadvertently activated it. The next second, a glass holding her water had shattered, leaving the files lying there soaking wet, coated in glass shards.

“Spencer, _a little bird told me that you calmed down_ ,” she emphasized. As soon as she had uttered the words, a burning pain was sent careening through her head. It felt like someone had sent an iron spike through her skull, splitting her mind in half. Marsha’s hand flew up to her temple, the source of the pain.

She noticed distantly that the photos on the wall were rattling, accompanying her desk’s sporadic shakes. Spencer was still in the midst of panic, and she was suddenly aware of her powerlessness against the boy.

“Marsha, I heard something from the other room and- oh my God!” Harry’s surprised voice rang out from somewhere near the door.

She sees his figure racing over towards Spencer, hugging his arms around the small boy until the rattling of objects within the room subsides.

The ache in her head is still pulsing heavily, sending shocks of pain every few seconds. Someone else entered and exited quickly, grabbing Spencer’s hand and pulling him gently out of the room. Harry led her gently over to the couch, one hand held on her hip for support. He then knelt down next to her, rubbing her back and asking questions that she only caught splinters of.

“Stop,” she whispered. “I’ll be okay.” Her hands were still shaking, but she lowered them down away from her head.

“Marsha, I’ve never seen anything like that before. What happened?” Harry questioned, turning to grab a paper cup and filling it with water from the surprisingly unshattered pitcher. He offered it to her, and she shakily took a sip as he took a seat next to her.

“I don’t know. I went to persuade him, but as soon as I said it it felt like someone had cracked my skull in half. I can’t even describe it well,” she mumbled, placing the cup down onto the coffee table.

Harry paused at that, seemingly lost in thought. “Do you think you found your limit?” He posed the question hesitantly, almost afraid of what she might say.

Marsha sat up straighter. “That has to be it. I- I don’t think I’ve ever tried to use it more than twice in the same day, before.”

Harry smiled over at her, close-lipped but still full of sympathy. “Don’t worry, Marshie, we’ll figure this out-”

“-together,” a voice whispered. “That’s the only way this will work. They have to be together.” A click, and heavy drop of a phone being placed down onto its receiver.

Marsha strutted down the long hallway, spotting the source of the voice. An offshoot of the long corridor led to an empty office, open and spilling light out from behind the slightly open door. She turned to investigate, when the door opened further and a small woman came out.

She was young, definitely a teenager. Her thin blonde hair traced behind her ear and crawled down to her elbows, thready and unkempt. She looked underweight for her age, but had a spark in her brown eyes that told Marsha this girl was not one to be trifled with.

As soon as the mystery girl spotted the woman, her face broke into a pleasant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hi, Mrs. Greenwood!”

Marsha was taken off-guard. This girl knew her? “Um, Miss Greenwood is fine.” She paused, trying to decide what to ask the enigma. “Sorry to be rude, but- do I know you?”

The girl laughed, stepping further out into the hallway and closing the door behind her.

“I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me. I’m Allanah, I just started staying here a day ago. Wing B?” she replied pleasantly. Her fingers were twitching nervously, out of place with the rest of the constructed facade.

“Ah, yes, Allanah. Nice to see you again,” she answered, politely pretending she had _any_ clue who this girl was. “May I ask, why were you in that office? Did you need something?”

Her face dropped for a second, before the blazing smile returned. “Just had to make a quick phone call home. My parents forgot to send me my favorite blanket.”

Marsha offered a kind smile, although she was still skeptical of the girl. “I completely understand. Comfort items are important, especially in a new place.”

Allanah nodded emphatically, displacing her hair and then sweeping it back behind her ear with a thin finger. She stood awkwardly for a moment before she said, “I think I should be going, Miss Greenwood. Curfew and all.”

Marsha paused in the midst of her analysis of the girl, and stepped aside from the middle of the hallway. “Yes, of course. I hope you have a restful night,” she replied, both professional and motherly.

Allanah strode down the hallway, looking over her shoulder before rounding the corner and leaving Marsha’s sightline. She could tell something was off about that girl, but it puzzled her as to what it could be.

The thought of Allanah stuck with the woman for the entirety of that night and into the next day, even following her into her office the next night, where she was nursing a whiskey and having a brief conversation with Harry.

She decided to broach the subject with her best friend, thinking that it would be helpful to clue him in on the odd new person enrolled in their program. Who knew, maybe he could offer some information.

“Have you met Allanah? She’s new, apparently living in the B wing,” she asked, swirling the amber liquid in the cup, watching it spiral.

Harry lowered his drink, setting it down onto her desk.

“No, I can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

Marsha bit her lip, running her finger along the rim of the glass. “She made a call from an office down the hall last night, after curfew. She just had an odd vibe about her, and I guess I wanted to see if you knew anything.”

Marsha paused. “I also looked for her file, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“Must not have been processed yet,” Harry added. “How long has she been here?” He met her eyes, curiosity glistening within them.

“Two days, apparently. Should have been enough time to be processed,” she mumbled to herself.

Harry stood, reaching for the crystal glass that held the whiskey. He let the liquid flow out for a few seconds, tilted it up, and then leaned the glass towards her as an offering. Marsha held up her hand while muttering a “No, thanks”.

The two were deprived of their quiet conversation when the doorknob twisted, clicked and allowed the door to open and reveal the topic of their conversation.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Allanah said, turning to close the door behind her. It took a few seconds for Marsha to realize she locked it, too.

Another person was standing next to her, a smaller boy. His brown hair was buzzed down military style, and the tiny freckles adorning his tan skin were sporadic. The boy had the skittish impression of a spooked animal.

“Of course not. What’s the matter?” Marsha asked politely, while also sending a questioning look over to Harry, who looked as confused as she felt. Allanah smiled.

“Nothing, really. Not anymore.”

The moment it took for the two adults to process Allanah’s concerning answer was too long; the girl was lunging at them in half a second. Harry rushed to pull Marsha away from the girl’s direct path, but the odd dagger Allanah had pulled from a pocket was sinking into her chest quickly and efficiently.

Marsha felt the thick blood well up into her lungs, the knife dragging through her chest, leaving a gaping wound exposed and open as she fell to the floor. 

Wheezing, gulping breaths were audible in the room as she tried to take in air that wouldn’t come. Harry stumbled for the dagger, but Allanah was two steps ahead.

“Louie, now!” she screamed, and the boy stepped out from behind her. Allanah threw the dagger to him, and he caught it.

Marsha could only watch as the knife slit Harry’s throat, blood pouring in rivulets from the new heavy gash adorning his neck. He fell to the floor like a lead balloon.

The room went silent.

“A- lit- b’rd t’ld me-” Marsha gasped, forcing the words out past heaving gulps for air. Her attempt was stopped quickly by Allanah, who pushed the heel of her boot right into Marsha’s wound, causing her to cry out in pain.

“Don’t even try it,” the girl seethed. She then settled her eyes onto the boy, pulling him closer to her with a gentle hand. Allanah smiled.

“It’s all going to be alright now, Louie. Just you wait and see,” she soothed, rubbing a calm hand on his back.

For Marsha, it all came spiralling into perspective in that moment. These people, these children, were going to watch the life drain out of her until she was reduced to nothing but a corpse on the floor.

Vision blurring, she looked up at them one last time. To her surprise, there was another person standing behind them, hazel eyes blown wide with shock. His thin frame trembled, and she had the odd feeling that she knew this man.

“Who ar’ you?” she slurred, heaving breaths slowing to a lazy pace.

The two children (the criminals, her _murderers_ ) looked to each other, confused. But the man behind them knew exactly what she meant.

Marsha couldn’t hear his voice, could barely see his face anymore, but found she could discern the minute movement of his lips. Like a whisper in the back of her head, faint and ghostly, she heard two words.

Spencer Reid, it whispered. _He_ whispered.

 _You’re all grown up_ , she thought, and Marsha Greenwood knew no more.

He gasped, eyes flying open and chest heaving for breath. Reid felt as if the knife wound was embedded in his own chest, a burning pain filling his inside out. Panic filled every cell, disoriented and frightened and straining to remember where he was.

It was dark in the cafeteria. Every light, window, and glass pane shattered into a million pieces. The table in the middle of the room had been reduced to large, splinter-like logs. Like it had blown open from the inside.  
He was coming back to his senses after seeing the linoleum floor littered with glass and wood. The room was still spinning, slightly blurry and distorted by clearing up with the passing moments. It was then he remembered what had happened (seconds? minutes?) before.

Marsha (or should he say Allanah?) screaming violent words, Harry (Louis?) kicking the life out of him, the explosion of power.

But what had happened after? A quick look around the room answered those questions for him.

Marsha was lying curled in the fetal position in the far corner of the room, thick blood dripping lazily from the front of her head. She looked- dead. Harry was lying close to her, bleeding from a similar head wound.

Oh, God. The rest of the team. 

They were splayed out on the ground, each in a slightly different position fanning out away from where Reid was sitting. Morgan, Prentiss, JJ, Hotch, Rossi, even Garcia. He distantly wondered why she was there, before the reality of the situation came crashing down onto him again.

Reid pushed himself back, hands and curled legs moving his seated body away from the others. He couldn’t look, couldn’t handle what he had done.

He had killed them. Doctor Spencer Reid, gifted upstart of the FBI, the one who knew too much, had murdered his only friends in cold blood. He felt sick, stomach churning with fear and hatred. His family lay dead before him, and all he could do was think of the fact that it was his fault.

_His fault._

Reid understood, now. The two children in the memory (or was it a hallucination?) had murdered Marsha and Harry, and took their place. They were trying to take his. Kill him for an ability he had just recently remembered, destroy everything he loved.

Turns out he beat them all to it.

So Spencer Reid does all he can think to do: he runs.

When they wake up, it’s hours after the sun has set. The light of the moon is the only thing illuminating the vast room. It’s odd, how they all regain consciousness at the same time. Almost like someone did it to them, accidentally or purposefully. Splitting headaches and various head wounds adorn each FBI member’s person. A woman’s body is curled in the corner, a bloodstain on the tile a few feet from her, but no body to match.

And who they came to find is gone. Reid is gone, again. 

Only one thought passed through everyone’s mind: _But why?_

They were afraid to know the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it was confusing, the majority of this chapter is jumping from memory to memory, in a nonlinear fashion. Hopefully it read that way. Also, I am startlingly aware of the lack of BAU in this chapter, but it was a necessary evil. Much more of them next chapter. ;))
> 
> But what did you think? Comments and kudos welcomed and greatly cherished!! (I will try to get better at answering comments, but do know I read every single one! I’m just busy and rather forgetful.)

**Author's Note:**

> So... what did you think?? Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, and until next time ;))


End file.
